Girlhood
by Mandelene
Summary: How do two men go about raising a pair of teenage girls? That's what Arthur and Francis are about to find out.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note** : Hello again! This story was requested by **kayladchristine** on tumblr. It's going to be quite a few chapters long, so I hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you think!

* * *

Eighty-six thousand, four hundred seconds in a Monday, and still, there never seems to be enough time for anything. Not enough time to mow the lawn, water the garden, make dinner, and fix the leaky faucet all in the same day, but just enough time to do the little things—like pack two lunches and tell someone you love them, or get reckless and then be stopped by the police.

But more on that later…

Dad's in an absolute panic because he's already running fifteen minutes (nine hundred seconds) late, and there's heavy traffic on the highway, which means he's going to have to confront some very displeased patients once he finally gets to the office. And if there's one thing Dad can't stand, it's tardiness.

It is, however, good news for both Amelia and Madeline, because it means they won't have to sit through Mr. Braginski's morning biology lesson on the human anatomy of growing adolescents. Which, to be fair, isn't an easy job to do, no matter who is teaching the subject.

"Damn it all to hell," Dad hisses, clenching his hands tighter against the steering wheel. He rubs a frustrated hand over his weary eyes and takes a deep breath, hoping to regain some composure.

Amelia frowns back at him. "Dad?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Janie got a new puppy last week."

"That's very nice," Dad replies absently as the car inches forward at the crawling pace of a small toddler.

"She taught him how to sit, roll over, fetch… He likes to play and cuddle, and if you scratch his belly, he makes a funny squeaking noise."

"Mm-hmm."

"So, when are we going to get a dog?"

Dad sighs heavily. "Not any time soon."

"Why not?"

"Who's going to take care of the dog, Amelia?"

"I will."

"Of course," Dad grumbles, not sounding very enthusiastic about the idea despite Amelia's eagerness. "A dog is a big responsibility, especially a puppy. It's akin to raising another child, and I, for one, am not prepared for another child," he explains before honking at a person in front of him. "Damned _idiots_ … How these people haven't had their driver's licenses taken away yet is beyond me."

"But Dad—!"

"No, Amelia. You don't need a dog. Madeline, are you cold back there, poppet? Would you like me to turn the heating up?"

Upon hearing her name being called, Madeline rouses herself out of her thoughts and smiles sheepishly at her father. "No, I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Uh-huh."

Dad's phone rings, and he hastily goes to pick it up. It must be someone from the office because they sound pretty peeved. "Hello? I'm on my way… I still have to drop the girls off at school. I know… I _know_ … Well, tell her I'm terribly sorry, but there's nothing I can do about it at the present time. I think there was an accident on the bridge. All right… Hopefully, I won't be much longer. Goodbye."

He puts his phone down, and just as he does, a police siren goes off somewhere behind them, and Dad stares at the rearview mirror for a good minute, stunned with pure disbelief. He swears under his breath, and shouts at no one in particular, "Really? _Now_? How do you expect me to pull over?"

"What did you do, Dad?" Amelia asks, a tad mockingly as she turns her head around and looks at the flashing lights of the cop car right behind them. "Oooooh, you're in trouble."

After some maneuvering, Dad gets to the side of the road, brings the car to a full stop, and rolls down the window on his side, furious.

"Are you going to get arrested?" Madeline wonders innocently, sounding quite concerned. "Should I call Papa?"

"No!" Dad assures, a bit too sharply. "Everything's all right, and no one is getting arrested."

"That's what he wants you to think, but it isn't true," Amelia tells Madeline with a snicker. "We're going to have to visit him in jail for Christmas."

Dad growls. "Amelia, I heard that! One more cheeky comment out of you, and you'll get an early bedtime."

For eleven-year-old girls full of as much boundless energy as Amelia, an early bedtime may as well be a death sentence. She immediately opens her mouth to protest, but just then, a young, serious-looking police officer walks up to the window on the driver's side, leans one hand on the roof of the car and says, "Sir? Do you know why I pulled you over?"

"No, officer," Dad replies, trying to sound polite to no avail. His patience has completely thinned. It's definitely not shaping up to be a good day for him.

"It's against the law to be on your cellphone while driving. I'm going to have to ask for your license and registration, please."

"With all due respect, I wasn't driving. I was at a standstill in traffic."

"Sir, that's no excuse to show disregard for the rules of the road. License and registration."

Conceding, Dad takes both of the aforementioned documents out of his wallet and hands them over as the girls look on in great interest.

"Is he going to jail?" Amelia suddenly asks the officer, causing Dad to drop his head into his hands and groan in embarrassment.

"We don't take people to prison for minor traffic offenses," the officer responds casually before walking off for a minute to write up a ticket.

When he's out of earshot, Dad turns around, looks Amelia directly in the eyes and says, "You're grounded."

"Why? I was just asking the policeman a question!"

Dad looks away, scoffs, and shakes his head. "I should have just adopted a dog after all… Would've spared myself the trouble of—"

"Drive safely," the officer announces, coming back to the window and handing Dad his ticket. It's a whopping three hundred dollars. Papa is going to be upset.

There's no point in arguing, and so Dad reluctantly nods and says, "Good day."

Fortunately, the gridlock lightens up once they get back on the road, and it only takes another twenty minutes to get to the girls' school. Dad parks not far from the entrance, circles around to help the twins out of their seats, and says, "Be good at school, especially you, Amelia."

"I'm always good," Amelia huffs, standing in front of him. "Toodle-loo, kangaroo!"

And just like that, Dad's former anger all but dissipates. He and Amelia always play this little game before they part ways, she'll say something silly and ridiculous and he'll have to respond in an equally ridiculous way.

"What about my hug, ladybug?" he mumbles to her with a wan smile, pressing a warm kiss to her forehead before embracing her. He does the same with Madeline a moment later, and then he watches the two go off toward the school building.

When they disappear behind the double doors and are safely inside, Dad returns to the car, pauses to smirk, and finally gets himself to work.

* * *

Papa is home early today, and while an immaculate fish is being cooked on the stove, he busies himself with styling Madeline's hair because the girl is still learning to make her own braids, and he's been helping her experiment.

"If you clipped your bangs back, we could see your beautiful face more often," Papa tells her softly with a smile, carefully managing to create a nice French braid that cascades down past her shoulders. He is the one in the house with nimble fingers and an apt attention to detail, which is probably why he is such an excellent chef and owns such a well-established restaurant. "Did you learn anything in school today?"

Madeline holds up a hand mirror to her face to judge Papa's work and gives him her seal of approval in the form of a bashful smile that makes her cheeks glow pink. "We learned how to multiply fractions in math."

"Ahh, and was it easy?"

"Yup!"

"That's what I like to hear," Papa praises her, petting her head. "And how's that boy doing? I think you said his name is Gilbert?"

Madeline flushes and lowers her head in shame. "He probably doesn't even know I'm in his class."

"Oh, don't say that! You're such a beautiful girl, I'm sure he has noticed you!"

"You think so?"

"I know so!" Papa reassures her, turning down the burner on the pan with the fish fillets in it. " _Mon lapin_ , maybe he's too shy to approach you. Boys are cowards sometimes."

"I don't know…"

"Give it time."

The sound of the front door being unlocked fills the house, and Dad walks in a moment later, a little slouched and haggard from the undoubtedly hectic day he's had. "Honey, I'm home," he calls out dryly to Papa, straining a good-humored grin as he enters the kitchen and steals a peek at what is sure to be a delectable dinner. Then, he tiptoes over to Papa and wraps his arms around the man's waist tantalizingly.

"Oh, Arthur, you are so predictable," Papa sighs, shrugging out of the man's hold. "I know why you're suddenly being so kind to me. I want you to explain the ticket you received. Apparently, you were almost arrested," he says, adding that last part with the intention of teasing his husband.

" _Amelia_ ," Dad snarls as Papa laughs.

"Who else? You can tell me the whole story later."

"Oh, I'm looking forward to it. Speaking of Amelia, where is she?"

"Moping in her room, I'm sure."

"And why's that?"

"I don't know what's gotten into her. She's impossible to talk to. I've simply given up! I asked her to clean her room about an hour ago, and she snapped at me with that new attitude and temper of hers. I won't let this go on any longer. She needs to have a little more respect for me!" Papa complains. "I know the girls are starting to enter a difficult age, but Madeline never acts so childish."

Dad purses his lips and says, "Amelia and Madeline are two very different people, and we can't expect them to behave the same way. It's just a phase, but if you're truly concerned, I'll talk to her about it."

"Thank you," Papa murmurs, checking on his fish. "But that can wait until later. For now, who's ready to eat?"

* * *

He knows there are certain things that he won't understand because he's never been in an eleven-year-old girl's shoes. He knows some things are wholly womanly, and no matter how hard he tries, he won't be able to take on the role of a mother for the girls. He knows all of this. He just wishes Amelia could at least give him a little credit for making an effort to reach out, but lately, their relationship has been splintering more and more.

He's alone with the girls over the weekend while Arthur is at work, and things had been going swimmingly until Amelia decided to lock herself in the bathroom at noon.

And now, he's face-to-face with a wooden door, feeling helpless because he can hear Amelia crying, but she refuses to let him in no matter how much he pleads with her or tries to get her to explain what's wrong.

"I'm dying, and I want Dad!" she howls, loud sobs echoing throughout the house.

"Amelia, _ma choute_ , just tell me what's wrong, and I'll try to make it better."

"You can't make it better! I'm going to die!"

He is starting to become just as panicked as she is, and so, he takes his cellphone out of his pocket and decides he has no choice but to disturb Arthur at work. Maybe he'll be able to restore peace. He has his husband on speed-dial, and although the first call goes to his voicemail, the second call is answered.

"Hello?"

"Arthur, thank god… I need you to speak to your daughter, Amelia, because she claims she's on the verge of death, but won't tell me how she came to such a conclusion."

"What—? _On the verge of death_? Is she in pain?"

"She told me earlier that her stomach was bothering her, but I don't know if that's the reason she's crying."

"She's _crying_?"

"Yes, and she said she wants you."

"Let me speak to her."'

"I can't, she's locked herself in the bathroom. Hold on…" Francis says hurriedly before knocking on the bathroom door again. "Amelia, I have your father on the phone. He wants to talk to you."

Amelia merely wails again. "I want him to come home!"

Arthur seems to overhear her request because he clicks his tongue worriedly and says, "All right, bring her down to the office, in that case."

Francis frowns. Ideally, he would've liked to have handled the situation himself—to have shown Amelia that she can trust him just as much as she trusts Arthur, but it doesn't look like he's going to be able to accomplish that today. He feels hurt knowing his daughter prefers Arthur over him, and he wonders if that's because he hasn't been a good enough papa to her.

When he tells Amelia he's going to bring her to Arthur, she doesn't hesitate to open the door.

* * *

"What's all this fuss about?"

Amelia wipes her tears away with a quivering hand when she sees Dad walk out to the waiting room to speak with her. Gently, he puts an arm around her shoulders and guides her away from Papa and Madeline and into one of the exam rooms, so they can have some privacy, and so Amelia can tell him exactly what's been bothering her.

Dad's dressed in his white coat and stethoscope, and almost instantly, Amelia feels safer in his presence. He picks her up with a little "oof" and sits her on the exam table, calm, smiling, and radiating warmth. He brushes his hand across her forehead, and lets it fall back to his side when he doesn't feel a fever. "What's wrong, love?"

"I don't feel good. I think I'm dying," Amelia tells him very quietly, sniffling.

Dad takes some tissues off of the counter and wipes her face. "Why don't you feel well? What hurts?"

"My stomach hurts a lot, and I'm bleeding."

"Bleeding?" Dad asks with alarm, furrowing his brows. "Bleeding where?"

Amelia bursts into a fresh waterfall of tears. It takes Dad a few moments to understand, and when he does, his face and ears become scarlet and flushed. He tucks Amelia's hair away from her eyes and pulls her into a hug before fervently rubbing at her back.

"Oh, Amelia. That's what all of this is about? You're menstruating. It's nothing to get so worked up over," Dad sighs, a bit uncomfortable with the situation himself even though he knows he shouldn't be. "This is a good thing. It means you're healthy and growing into a young woman."

"B-But maybe I don't want to b-be a woman!" Amelia stammers, burying her head in her father's shoulder. The rubbery tubing of his stethoscope squishes against her nose.

"Why not?"

"Because then I won't be me anymore."

"You can be a woman and still be Amelia," Dad assures, kissing the top of her head.

"So I'm not going to die from blood loss like Maddie said I would?"

Dad pulls back from their hug briefly. "Madeline told you that?"

"She said that's what she heard from another girl at school."

"When I come home tonight, we'll sit down with Madeline, and I'll explain exactly how it works. But to answer your question, no, you're not going to die. You are going to be perfectly fine, my love," Dad says soothingly. "I'll get you some pain medication for the cramps. Sit tight."

After a hushed discussion with Papa out in the hallway, it is agreed that the Frenchman will run to the nearby drugstore to get some sanitary napkins so that Amelia doesn't have to continue to walk around with toilet paper stuffed in her underwear. He's back soon enough, and then Dad enlists the help of the female RN in the office to show Amelia how to put a pad on in the bathroom because he's sure Amelia would be more comfortable having a woman help her. He's right.

Once that's all settled, Dad gives her some Advil and says, "Go out to Papa and tell him you're sorry for worrying him so much. Then, tell him how much you love him because he needs to hear it. He'll take you and Madeline home. I'll join you all in a few hours."

And everything is okay again.

* * *

"So that's where the baby grows?" Madeline asks, eyes wide.

"If all goes as it should, then yes," Dad affirms, taking a sip of water as he explains the diagram on his laptop to the two girls on the couch. They are all snuggled together under a heavy quilt to fight off the winter chill with Dad in the center as he points out the various structures in the female reproductive system.

Meanwhile, Amelia crosses her arms, unimpressed. "I thought only chickens had eggs."

She doesn't know why Dad laughs at that comment, but he does, so much so that he chokes a bit on his water. "Well, it's a different type of egg."

"Then how come I didn't see the egg come out of me?"

Dad bites back a smirk. "It's microscopic."

Papa walks by once or twice, amused by the scene. He is undoubtedly glad that he can leave these types of conversations to the medical doctor in the family. "Would the ladies or the gentleman like any tea?"

Unsurprisingly, Dad and Madeline raise their hands and accept the offer while Amelia wrinkles her face in disdain.

"I'll put the kettle on, then. If there's anything else I can bring, let me know."

Dad tilts his head at him and asks, "Aren't you going to stay for the lecture?"

"As much as I'd love to talk about the ovaries and the fallopian tubes, I have some vacuuming to do," Papa retorts, fabricating an excuse. He'll leave this one to Dad. He's clearly got it under control.

"So, when am I going to get my period?" Madeline asks out of curiosity.

At that, Papa makes a gasping sound and clutches at his chest. "Don't tell me I have to go through this _again_!"

Dad rolls his eyes and chuckles, doing his best to ignore the dramatic outburst. "It depends. Everyone's body is different. Some girls get it earlier or later than others. It doesn't mean you're any less healthy or that it's abnormal. Generally, most girls have their first period by the time they're sixteen, but it's not unheard of to get it even later than that."

Both of the girls consider this for a moment, until Amelia finally declares, "I should just be a boy. It's easier."

"No, you're both perfect the way you are, and you shouldn't want to change a single hair on your head because there's no reason to," Dad insists. "Now, if you don't have any more questions, it's time for you girls to start getting ready for bed."

They all rise from the couch, and Amelia races Madeline up the stairs and tries to see who can brush their teeth and get changed first. Because of the dull aching still residing in Amelia's abdomen, Madeline ends up winning, and they go to their separate rooms, waiting for Papa and Dad to say goodnight to them.

Papa goes around to tuck them in first, followed by Dad.

"Toodle-loo, kangaroo!" Amelia tells Dad as he covers her with an extra blanket and makes sure she's comfortable for the night.

"Where's my hug, ladybug?" Dad replies habitually before giving Amelia one last hug and turning out the light.


	2. Chapter 2

She is hideous. Despicable. Her body is no longer her body—it has morphed into some strange creature she no longer understands. It has a mind of its own. It changes and contorts her in whichever way pleases it, vicious and unrelenting while she's stuck in the middle, powerless. There is nothing she can do to stop it. She can only stand before the mirror and wonder how this happened.

"Madeline? We have to leave," Papa calls to her from the hallway.

"She said she's not going to school today," Amelia tells him from somewhere near the head of the stairs.

"Why not?"

"She doesn't feel well."

Papa lets out a small huff of exasperation and mutters, "I should just keep your father stationed here all day to handle these constant medical problems."

He sweeps into the room and looks down at Madeline, expression softening. "What's wrong, _ma chérie_?"

Madeline presses her face into her pillow, shoulders shaking. "I'm staying home."

"Why?" Papa asks, putting a hand on her back. "Madeline, please move the pillow from your face and talk to me. I can't help if I can't understand you."

But it doesn't matter if he can hear her or not, he still won't understand. For a moment, Madeline feels very alone and helpless, and some tears spill over onto her cheeks. Cautiously, she raises her head and looks at Papa. "I look horrible."

There's a glowing red pimple on her nose, vengeful and relishing in being the center of her face. She waits for Papa to laugh and call her ugly, or silly, or anything else that she's imagined he would say at this, but he doesn't do any of that.

Instead, he smiles at her, kisses her right atop her zit-ridden nose, and says, "There's my beautiful _chérie_."

How can she be beautiful when she's like this? He's probably lying to make her feel better, and her stomach churns at the mere thought.

Papa brushes her hair back with a gentle hand and looks her in the eyes. "There is nothing wrong. You're my beautiful Madeline," he assures.

"B-But don't you see it?"

"See what?"

"The pimple!"

Papa lifts a brow in astonishment, as though just noticing the offending mark and says, "Oh, that? Everyone gets spots at your age. We'll stop by the drugstore and get some facial cleanser for you, if you'd like. Now, are you ready to go to school?"

Now she really does feel silly. If Papa didn't make such a big deal out of it, does that mean no one else will either? Or maybe he's just trying to fool her into thinking everything is okay. Regardless, whatever his motive is, it works, because Madeline gets the strength to stand up and follow him out of the room, feeling surprisingly better.

And suddenly, she doesn't feel so alone anymore.

* * *

There he is—standing by his locker and talking to one of his friends in that suave way of his. Everything he does makes Madeline swoon against her will. His shaggy, unkempt hair, his twinkling eyes, the way he walks, stands, talks, and looks out at the world. It's all so mesmerizing to watch, and she wonders if he has ever snuck a glance her way. Does he know she's there in the distance, smiling at him? Most of the time, it just feels like she's a ghost to him.

She has thought about approaching him but has never had the courage to actually do so. She could sneak a note into his locker or go right up to him and say hello, but it's all so daunting that she usually manages to chase the thought out of her mind before she ever gets the chance to act.

"Hello? Earth to Madeline? You okay?" Amelia asks her, following her gaze to where Gilbert is standing. "Oh, my God. Could you be any more obvious? Don't just stare at him."

Madeline blushes and quickly looks away and down at her feet. Amelia is right. She's being too forward, and guys don't like girls who are forward, right? You're supposed to play hard to get—make yourself desired and mystical and...

"I could talk to him for you, if you want," Amelia suggests.

"No!" she practically screams, shocking herself with the loudness of her own voice. "You can't do that! It would be embarrassing. Besides, the guy is supposed to be the one to talk to the girl first."

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is."

"Is not," Amelia insists, crossing her arms. "If I liked a boy, I'd walk right up to him and tell him so. What's so wrong with that? It makes things a lot easier instead of wondering all of the time if they like you back."

"How would you know?" Madeline snaps back at her, instantly regretting how sharp her tone is.

Amelia frowns. "Fine, I'm outta here. I'll see you later."

Darn it. All of this is Gilbert's fault. Because of him, Amelia's mad at her and is going to need to be appeased at some point, which means Madeline will have to offer to do her homework or something equally tedious.

She grasps the strap of her backpack tightly, spins around on her heel, and runs after Amelia to apologize.

* * *

Amelia is more discreet with her insecurities, and Madeline knows this to be a fact. She'll stand in front of their mirror in nothing but her training bra and shorts and say things like, "Am I getting chubby?"

There will be this odd look in her eyes, something akin to disappointment, and then she'll turn away from the mirror and act as though she never said anything in the first place. Madeline knows Amelia will never explicitly say how she feels or what's bugging her. She'll just mope and sulk until she forgets about it, and by that point, Madeline will have usually forgotten as well, and they continue about their day.

But then, there are things that aren't so easily ignored or forgotten.

In the spring, just as the winter's cold breath seems to begin its retreat and the days become longer, Amelia stops eating the lunch Papa packs for her. Sometimes, she'll take a few bites of fruit like an apple or banana, but she doesn't touch her sandwich or the leftovers Papa usually puts together for them.

When Madeline asks her about it, Amelia blinks back at her nonchalantly and makes up some excuse about how she's not hungry or that she doesn't like eating during this time of the day. She makes her promise not to tell Papa or Dad, and although Madeline doesn't want to make that kind of promise, Amelia is persistent.

At home, Amelia eats a little less than she normally does, but it isn't that noticeable unless one is making a conscious effort to notice. She cuts out any snacks, but she eats breakfast and dinner just as always. Lunch, however, becomes nonexistent for her after a while. Every day of every week, Amelia casts her lunch aside and skips the meal. Madeline tries to confront her once or twice, but every time she tries to say something, Amelia accuses her of being a bad sister for even suggesting she start eating again.

"Don't you want me to be skinny?"

"No. Why do you have to be skinny? You look fine," Madeline tells her.

"I'm _fat_ ," Amelia says, spitting the word 'fat' with a kind of bitterness that Madeline has never seen her express.

There is no reasoning with her. She's dead-set on believing she needs to lose weight, and Madeline backs down because there isn't anything she can say to make things better. She wants to tell someone what Amelia has been doing, but she promised not to, and Madeline has never broken one of her sister's promises. She doesn't want to be a snitch nor does she want to lose Amelia's trust.

So she lowers her head and pretends she doesn't see any of it.

* * *

"Don't move, or you'll ruin it!"

"Okay! I'm not moving."

"Is everything all right in here?"

Arthur isn't sure what he intends to see when he walks into the master bedroom. Francis is sitting on the carpet next to their bed, holding out his hand to Amelia as she applies a coat of purple nail polish to his nails, very focused on giving him a good manicure. Madeline, meanwhile, is working on his feet, which have been painted a neon green.

"Ah, I'm sorry for interrupting. I didn't know we were running a salon in here," Arthur says once he has recovered his voice. "I-I'll just be on my way then."

"Oh, no you don't, Arthur! Come back here!" Francis shouts, smiling with his eyes. "Wouldn't you like to join us? I'm sure we can find you the perfect color to bring out your features."

Arthur tries not to choke on air as he replies, "Thank you, but I think I'll—"

"Yeah, Dad! Come on! We can do your nails next!" Amelia exclaims with a pearly white grin before gesturing to a vacant spot on the carpet. "Pretty, pretty please?"

"I think not," Arthur rasps, paling. It's time to draw a line somewhere. The girls already have him wrapped around their fingers, and he gives into them far too often, but not this time. No, he'll be strong. He will not allow himself to be—.

"Please, Dad?" Madeline murmurs sweetly, making his heart melt. It's far easier to yell at Amelia and tell her no than it is to deny Madeline.

"A-All right," he says in abject defeat before plopping himself down next to Francis. How did he get to this point? Who gave his children the right to be so adorable? It's maddening!

Francis chuckles at his dilemma and cheerfully examines the bottles of nail polish lined up next to him. Moving the hand that's not being worked on by Amelia, he picks up a blindingly bright pink bottle and says, "I think this color would complement your green eyes."

Arthur doesn't hesitate to glare at his husband, not impressed. He snatches the bottle out of Francis' hands and looks at the label. The color is horrendously called 'Rock N' Roll Pink.'

"Oooh, that one's nice," Amelia comments, and Arthur can't tell if she's teasing him or not. "Maddie's almost done with Papa's toes, and then she'll do yours."

"Ahh, I think I'll pass on the pedicure today, ladies. Just a manicure for me."

"But then what is Maddie going to do while I'm doing your hands? It's not fair to her!"

And yes, Amelia has a blasted point. If he's going to be tortured, then both of the girls need an equal opportunity at torturing him, naturally. "Okay, I'm convinced. How much is all of this going to cost me?"

"Toes are three dollars extra," Madeline informs, finishing the top coat on Francis's pinkie-toe.

Arthur sucks in a breath and says, "Three dollars? I'm going to leave here with an empty wallet, aren't I? But all right, do as you must. Beauty isn't free these days. Remind me to send you both to business school."

He slumps over and gets comfortable because odds are he's going to be here a while. He leans into Francis's shoulder, so they can rest side-by-side, and as Madeline starts putting that damned 'Rock N' Roll Pink' on his left foot, Francis rubs a stubbly cheek against his and pecks him with a kiss, evidently proud of him for letting the girls do this.

"You owe me a cup of tea," Arthur grumbles lowly.

"I know," Francis snickers. "I'll make it up to you."

Except he has a lot of making up to do, because as it turns out, they don't have any nail polish remover in the house, and so when Arthur gets up for work the following morning, he almost scrubs his fingers raw as he tries to get the color off. Ultimately, he's left with no choice but to show up to work with his lovely manicure, and he has a lot of explaining to do throughout the day as his patients give him funny looks.

One patient, an elderly woman with osteoporosis and chronic back pain who just recently has been coming to the office, jokingly asks if the pink nails are part of some kind of new hobby of his. She seems like the type of person who has seen all there is to see in life.

"I have two daughters," he tells her with a dejected air.

"Oh," she says approvingly, immediately understanding. "In that case, you're a good father, dear."

* * *

She's going to tell on Amelia. She has to. For the past four weeks, she hasn't been able to look her sister directly in the eyes because she's been ridden with a feeling of foreboding and frustration. And thankfully, she gets her chance one Saturday evening.

"Amelia, come and try these jeans on. They're a little too long for Madeline, but you're an inch taller so they should fit better on you," Papa says, handing the pants over to Amelia as she walks into her room to change.

She obediently puts on the jeans and buttons them before opening the door to show Papa. He's right, they're perfect in terms of their length, however, they're loose around her waist, which is surprising because Amelia has been wearing the same size of clothes for a while now after having an early growth spurt.

Papa looks at her worriedly and says, "When did you lose this much weight?"

Amelia bites her lip and shrugs her shoulders, pretending to be oblivious. "The style of the jeans is just bigger."

But Papa isn't buying any of it. "Arthur!"

Madeline watches the scene unfold from the doorway, and within seconds, she hears Dad lower the volume of the T.V. in the living room and come up the stairs. He places a warm hand on her head as he passes her and walks into Amelia's room.

"Yes?"

"Look, she must have lost at least five kilos!" Papa exclaims, emphasizing how much the jeans are sagging off of Amelia's hips by tugging on the waistband of the fabric.

Dad furrows his eyebrows and kneels down in front of Amelia to have a better look at her frame. He puts a hand on either of her sides and is surprised when he can quite easily feel her ribs poking through. "Have you been feeling all right, love? Eating normally?"

Amelia nods her head.

"Amelia, it's expected for your weight to fluctuate because you're growing, but this is quite a drastic change. Are you being completely honest with me? I won't be angry if something is going on, but I need to know," Dad continues, very serious and firm. "Are you certain there isn't anything you'd like to tell me?"

She nods her head again, and this time, Madeline can't stand for the lies any longer. She musters her courage, hugs her stuffed polar bear to her chest for reassurance, and steps into the room.

"She's lying. She's been throwing away her lunches."

Dad twists his head around to look at her, stunned. Then, he looks back to Amelia. "Is that true?"

Amelia grits her teeth and yells, "You promised! You're the worst sister ever! I can't tell you anything anymore! I hate you!"

Now Papa becomes stern. "Don't speak to your sister that way. She's worried about you. We all are."

Amelia tries to storm away, but Dad grabs her by the arm and pulls her back. He sits her on her bed, and when she starts thrashing to break free, he holds her by her wrists and calmly says, "We're going to talk about this like adults. This is a serious matter, Amelia. But first, apologize to your sister."

"No!"

And Madeline can't help but cry because all she wanted to do was help. She doesn't want Amelia to hate her for the rest of her life. They do everything together, and she doesn't want that to change.

Dad and Papa exchange a glance, and then Papa takes Madeline by the hand and leads her out of the room and downstairs to the kitchen, which is always where they go to talk one-to-one.

"You did the right thing, _mon lapin_. Everything will be all right, and Amelia will come around. You'll see."

Even so, she still feels like a traitor.

* * *

"I don't want to talk about it!"

"It's not a matter of what you want."

"You wouldn't understand anyway."

"Yes, because I've never been at your age," Arthur says sarcastically before letting out a long sigh. He takes a seat on the bed next to Amelia and pinches the bridge of his nose. True, the social pressures on girls are far different from those placed on boys, but that doesn't mean he's completely unknowledgeable about such body issues. "Amelia, you know it's very dangerous to skip meals. It's not a healthy way to lose weight, nor does it last in the long-term."

He's preaching too much, and he can tell Amelia isn't taking a word he's saying to heart. So, he switches tactics. He doesn't like having to recall his own miserable childhood, but if it'll help…

"When I was eleven, I was shorter than all of the other boys in my class, and there wasn't a millimeter of muscle on my bones. I was also the youngest of four, and so, all of my brothers had already grown into their bodies and looked far more masculine, so to speak. I tried lifting weights to become stronger, but I—of course—took on more than I could manage and ended up dropping a weight on my foot and breaking two bones, so that's how well that turned out," he recalls, laughing tiredly at the memory. "In short, I was doing more harm than good by trying to change myself. Within three years, I outgrew youngest brother and by the time I was done with secondary school, I was the same height as my eldest brother."

A small smile crosses Amelia's face, but it fades quickly. "Why would you want to be all muscly, anyway?"

"Because I thought that was how a 'man' was supposed to look. Amelia, my point is that they are always going to be things you wish you could change about yourself. If it's not your weight or height, it'll be your nose, or your eyes, or your hair. And there will always be people who will try to make you believe that you _should_ change yourself or that you need to be different in order to be accepted by others, but all of that is complete and utter rubbish. There is nothing wrong with the way you look, and there was nothing wrong with the way I looked either. It's just a matter of perspective and attitude," he explains, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"You have to teach yourself to drown out those critics, the ones outside as well as inside. Who wants to waste their whole life worrying about how they look when there are so many other things you could be doing? Life is too short to constantly be at battle with oneself. Besides, I like _this_ Amelia, and I wouldn't want her to change a thing," he says fondly. "And you're far, far, _far_ too young to be worrying about dieting. You're a healthy young girl, and if there was a real reason for concern, we would take care of it. But since there isn't, I want you to eat the lunches that your papa works so hard to make. All right?"

Amelia begrudgingly nods her head, and Arthur can tell that this time she will remember his lecture.

"Where's my hug, ladybug?"

The smiles comes back to her face, and she embraces him, face tucked against his neck. "I love you."

"I love you, too. Make things right with your sister, okay?"

"Okay."

"You'll also be washing dishes for the rest of the week for lying and for being rude to Madeline," Arthur declares.

"I figured."


	3. Chapter 3

Francis is simply not equipped with the mental capabilities apparently needed to understand the mind of a young woman. According to Amelia, everything he does seems to be wrong in one way or another, and he doesn't know quite how to deal with this revelation. If he tries to communicate with her, all he gets are one word responses. How was school? Fine. What did you do today? Nothing. Any plans for the weekend? Nope.

Arthur, of course, says he's just taking all of this too personally. He claims it's just a phase (a phase, unfortunately, that might not end for at least another six or seven years). What happened to the cute child who used to sit on his back during the Fourth of July to better see the fireworks lighting up the night sky? Where is the sweet girl who used to dance with him in the kitchen to the tunes on the radio?

Madeline is as much of an angel as ever, and bless her heart for that because Francis doesn't know how he would deal with all of the melodrama if she had half of the attitude Amelia often has. Plus, as much as Madeline spends time in his company, she also shares that company with Arthur, which cannot be said for her sister.

Arthur suggests taking Amelia out for some father-daughter bonding, but Francis is so out of touch with Amelia's interests these days that he isn't even sure of what she'd like to do. She's not the type of girl to enjoy long shopping trips through the mall nor does she like going to the park anymore because it's too 'childish.' He worries that her willingness to grow up will backfire, and if Arthur is concerned about this as well, he hasn't mentioned it.

Admittedly, Francis reaches a breaking point one morning, and he takes full responsibility for his actions. On a sluggish Thursday, it's once again his turn to drop the girls off at school, and Amelia is being particularly difficult. All of his frustration and feelings of inadequacy somehow come rushing out of him all at the same time, and although he knows better than to project onto his children, he does it anyway because he's too furious to even realize he has allowed control to slip through his fingers.

They're behind their regular schedule, and Amelia still hasn't gotten out of bed, which is the final nudge needed to push Francis over the edge. He storms into Amelia's room, rips the duvet off of her slumbering figure, and says, plainly, "Get up, Amelia. You're going to be late to school."

Amelia keeps her head down in her pillows and mumbles, "I don't feel well."

It's an excuse Francis won't stand for today. He knows the girls have a biology test, and he assumes that's the reason Amelia wants to fake being sick. He has heard all of her excuses before. If it's not her head that's bothering her than it's her stomach, or her appendix, or her liver, or her kidneys, or some other, wild tall tale of a magical illness.

"You're going to school," Francis declares, not willing to waste any more time. "I won't tell you again. Be downstairs within five minutes."

"But I'm sick!"

"Amelia, five minutes," he warns, not believing for a second that anything is actually amiss with the pre-teen. He will not be fooled today _nor_ will he give into any crocodile tears. It's high time for the girl to learn that he's not a pushover, and she should treat him with the proper respect he deserves as her father.

And miraculously, Amelia obeys. She is dressed and ready to leave rather promptly, and Francis must admit that he's thoroughly surprised by the lack of resistance. For a brief second, he notices how pale Amelia is, but then Madeline begins to tell him about the substitute teacher coming in to cover the girls' math class for the next week, and he forgets all about it—thinking that it's nothing but a trick of the light.

Stupid, stupid him for not being more observant, and for letting his emotions get the best of him.

He gets the girls to school without further incident, and then heads straight for work at his restaurant. Cooking always relaxes him, and by the time the lunch rush comes around, he has completely forgotten why he was so short-tempered earlier in the day. That doesn't mean, however, that he doesn't pay a dire price for his prior actions, because he gets a call from a very irate and embittered Arthur at a quarter past noon, demanding he explain himself.

"Why did you send Amelia to school with a fever?"

And just like that, Francis feels his blood turn to ice. "What? I thought..."

"Yes, go on. Please tell me what in god's name you were thinking."

Francis runs out of steam almost at once and is bogged down by a crushing and excruciating feeling of guilt. "I thought she was lying because she didn't want to take her biology exam. She has lied before, if you remember."

Arthur sighs, and Francis can tell that he isn't angry at him. How can he be? Amelia isn't exactly the most honest of children. "She's sitting in the school infirmary, and I can't possibly leave work right now to pick her up."

"I'll take care of it. I can leave the restaurant in the hands of my staff."

"All right, I'll call again in an hour. If she feels any worse—"

"I'll let you know," Francis promises, already grabbing his things and putting on his coat.

"And, Francis?"

"Yes?"

"She loves you unconditionally, and although she'll never say so, she _needs_ you."

No, it's not true, especially not after today. He's been so caught up in trying to get Amelia to warm up to him that he's ended up pushing her even farther away. Arthur shouldn't be so forgiving.

After a brief goodbye, he hangs up the phone and makes the trip back to the girls' school, stomach knotted as he wallows in self-loathing. If Amelia was hostile toward him before, he can only imagine what she'll be like now.

When he carefully steps into the nurses' office, he finds Amelia curled up in a chair pressed up against the wall, shivering and sweating. He wants nothing more than to reach out to her with gentle arms and embrace her—to apologize for the way he brushed her off this morning—but his paternal instincts just aren't as strong with Amelia as they are with Madeline. Perhaps she doesn't want to be held. After all, every attempt he has made in the past to soothe her has been cast aside, and he doesn't want to make this unnecessarily awkward or uncomfortable for either of them.

But no matter how many times she evades him or makes him feel inadequate, it is still his duty to be there for her. She's his daughter, and regardless of how standoffish she can be toward him at times, he loves her dearly. Now is as good a time as any to show her that.

And so, he takes in a deep breath, kneels down in front of the chair Amelia is seated in, and pulls her into a hug. He can feel the fever on her skin, and before he can stop himself, he presses a kiss to her forehead and tries to come up with a way to mend the broken bridge between them.

"I'm so sorry, _mon lapin_. I should have listened to you this morning when you said you weren't well. It's all my fault. Even adults make mistakes sometimes. We'll go home, and I'll make you your favorite soup, okay?" he whispers, and a stone somehow forms in his throat. "I'm so, so, so sorry. I love you, and I'd never want you to be hurt or unwell. You know that, _oui_?"

Amelia sinks into his hold, clearly tired and run-down. If she's upset with him, she's too exhausted to express it. "I know, Papa."

Francis's heart stutters. He signs Amelia out for an early dismissal, and they walk to the car together, hand-in-hand. For a moment, they are okay again. There's no anger between them, no bitterness—and it's beautiful to be at peace for at least a little while. He has missed this, and he wishes things could always be this way between them.

It's quiet when they enter the house, which isn't a frequent occurrence. Amelia goes straight for the stairs and up to her room, toeing off her shoes in the foyer along the way. She's likely going to nap in bed all day, and Francis can't blame her.

He makes some raspberry chamomile tea with extra honey and brings it upstairs when it's ready. By then, Amelia is fast asleep, so he leaves the steaming mug on the nightstand and sits by her bedside, using the moment to reflect.

My God, the girls are changing rapidly. He can already see how Amelia's features are becoming more mature, abandoning the rounded bits of baby fat that he will surely miss.

"We're going to get through this," he mumbles to Amelia, even though he knows she can't hear him.

And it dawns upon him just how scared he is—scared that the girls will become women and somehow end up despising him before moving across the country and never speaking to him again. This is a critical period in the twins' development. What if he messes up irreversibly? If today is to be any indication of how he will manage raising two teenage girls in the future, he may as well throw in the towel now because there's no hope for success.

"Papa?"

He jolts forward at once and places a hand on Amelia's forehead, worried. " _Oui_? I'm here, _ma choupinette_. I'm here."

Sleepily, she mumbles something incomprehensible at first, and then adds, "Don't leave."

"Of course I won't," Francis eases her, and his heart becomes a little more whole. "I'm not going anywhere."

And she drifts right back to sleep.

The rest of the day passes by slowly and uneventfully. Arthur fetches Madeline on his way back from work, and when he comes through the front door, he doesn't spare a second to start bombarding Francis with questions regarding Amelia's health.

"Did you take her temperature? Has she had anything to eat? What are her symptoms? Did you give her any medication?"

"Everything is fine. She is upstairs and in bed, exactly where you told me to keep her."

"I'm going to check on her," Arthur says fretfully, already halfway up the stairs.

While Arthur occupies himself with that, Francis adds the final bits of seasoning to the soup he promised he'd make, and asks Madeline how her day went. Apparently, she's making progress with Gilbert because he asked to borrow her pencil during homeroom.

Arthur returns soon after, and unwraps his stethoscope from around his neck before placing it in the bag he carries to and from work. "It's an ear infection. Nothing some antibiotics and rest won't cure."

"I'm glad it's nothing serious."

"She should stay home from school tomorrow, and we should have Madeline keep her distance because she's likely contagious," Arthur cautions, a pensive and somewhat despondent look in his eyes. "You spoke to her about all of this, I hope."

"Yes, yes. I apologized. I'll be more careful next time. I'm sorry for all of the trouble today."

"I suppose I can find the will to forgive you," Arthur teases him lightly before stepping beside Francis to give him a sympathetic albeit mildly begrudging kiss. "It's all right now."

"I know, but I still feel horrible."

"She'd like for you to sit with her, I think. She asked where you were and when you'd be coming back."

Francis raises a brow in shock. "Really?"

"Yes, really, you daft frog."

"Wouldn't she prefer if you stayed with her?"

Arthur shakes his head softly and ladles out some of the now finished soup into a clean bowl. Then, he holds it out for Francis to take. "You know what to do. She wants her papa. I'll be here, helping Madeline with her homework if some sort of problem arises. I'll come up in a little while to bring the antibiotics and a warm compress."

Francis takes the bowl, grabs a spoon, and gives his husband an appreciative smile. "Thank-you."

It isn't exactly the way he planned to bond with Amelia, but it'll do.

* * *

From what Arthur and Francis have been told after multiple conversations with the girls, the start of the seventh grade is a big deal. Bigger than they could ever even imagine, apparently, but both men are simply pleased they've managed to get the twins through another year of school, which is both a victory and a horror, because it means that although the girls have turned twelve and are continuing on the road to growing up, my goodness, _they're already twelve and are continuing on the road to growing up_.

"So what's so important about being in the seventh grade now?" Francis asks on the morning of the new term, genuinely interested in finding out what all of this excitement is about.

"Well," Amelia begins haughtily in between chowing down on some cornflakes. "It means we get new teachers, new lockers, a super important state test in January, _and_ we get to make fun of all of the sixth graders for being little kids."

At this, Arthur sets down his cup of tea and frowns. "If I see you making fun of another student for any reason, young lady—"

"It was just a joke!" Amelia assures, but her response is too quick to be honest.

"I'm sure you didn't enjoy being teased when you were a sixth grader last year," Arthur reminds pointedly, unamused. "I expect you to be polite and treat everyone with respect, understood?"

"Okay, I know," Amelia grumbles, put-out.

"Where's Madeline? She's been getting dressed for almost half an hour now," Francis remarks, packing the girls' lunches in their new and improved seventh grade lunchboxes.

Arthur gets up from his seat at the table, gives his legs a good stretch, and says, "I'll go and see what's keeping her."

"Tell her that her breakfast is getting cold."

But because Madeline isn't exactly the most raucous child in the world, in fact, she's far from it, she can sometimes be difficult to find. She's not in her room, and Arthur is just beginning to worry that she wandered off into the study and got her nose stuck in a book again when he hears sounds of movement from the bathroom.

The door is closed, and so, he knocks, becoming a bit concerned. "Madeline? Is everything all right? Breakfast is waiting for you."

He waits for a reply, and he gets one, but he has to press his ear against the wood of the door to hear it.

"I'm coming…"

"What're you doing in there, love?"

"Just… Just fixing my hair."

Skeptical, Arthur narrows his eyes and asks, "May I come in?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"I-I didn't put a shirt on yet."

He trusts Madeline, and she doesn't have a reputation for being troublesome, so he gives her the privacy she clearly wants and returns to the kitchen, briefly explaining the situation to Francis before they both wait impatiently for her to make an appearance once and for all.

And it turns out to be quite the appearance because when Madeline finally slinks over to the table, she brings everyone to a complete standstill. For a moment, neither Arthur nor Francis believe that the girl standing before them is their daughter. Her blond hair has been let down to its full length, allowing her loose curls to frame her figure, her lips are shimmery with a dark pink gloss, her eyes are bright and accentuated by a salmon colored eye shadow, and her cheeks are rosy with blush.

Francis is the first to gain his bearings back and speak. "Madeline! You look stunning! I told you that peach undertones would suit you best."

Arthur, meanwhile, is left gaping and gawking, dumbstruck. He blinks a few times, clears his throat, and has to brace himself on the counter for support. A bout of lightheadedness comes over him, and Francis hurries next to him to ensure he doesn't collapse.

"Arthur? You're as white as a ghost."

"My daughter is _not_ going to school looking like _that_."

"And why on earth not?" Francis huffs, stepping back upon seeing his husband recover. "She looks lovely."

"Lovely? She's too young to be wearing cosmetics!"

"She is not. Now is a good time for her to start experimenting."

"No," Arthur insists, unrelenting. "Perhaps when she starts secondary school, but not now. Why didn't you tell me you bought her all of this?"

"I didn't think it was such a controversial subject!"

Enthusing over her sister's new appearance, Amelia sits up excitedly and asks, "Can I wear some make-up, too?"

"No," Arthur retorts without even turning toward her. "There is no reason for a twelve-year-old child to be wearing make-up. Our girls are beautiful as they are, and they need to understand the importance of natural beauty before they try changing themselves."

Francis clicks his tongue and puts a hand on his hip. "There's nothing wrong with a light touch-up."

"Yes, for now it's a 'touch-up,' but what will that escalate to?"

"You're overreacting."

Hearing all of this, Madeline instantly becomes self-conscious and lowers her head, hiding her face. Tears escape her eyes before she can stop them, and a sob racks her body, pitching her shoulders forward.

"Now, look what you've done!" Francis accuses Arthur, glaring. "You've made her cry! Oh, Madeline… _Mon lapin_ , it's okay. Your father is being unreasonable."

" _I'm_ the unreasonable one?"

"We'll talk about this later," Francis hisses before guiding Madeline out of the kitchen.

Everything falls silent again, until Amelia looks carefully at Arthur and says, "Don't worry, Dad. I was just kidding. I don't want to wear any make-up anyway. It's too much work."

Arthur sighs and tucks Amelia's bangs behind her ears, lost in thought. "But do you think I have a point?"

"Yeah."

"Are you just saying that to make me feel better?"

"Yeah," Amelia admits with a laugh, squealing when Arthur tickles her neck to get his revenge.

"I thought so."

* * *

Nine in the evening is argument time. Every evening, as the girls are getting ready for bed, Francis and Arthur set aside half an hour for themselves to talk about the issues of the day, from the smallest gripes to the cataclysmic, life-altering problems.

"She's a growing girl, Arthur, and she needs to be able to express herself."

"And she can't pick up art or a sport instead?"

"I don't understand why this bothers you so much."

"I just think it's a little too early for Madeline to be starting these... types of activities."

Francis tuts and lays himself down on their bed, arms behind his head. "If it'll help to make her feel more confident, what's so wrong with it?"

"She doesn't need make-up to be confident."

"I feel like we're running in circles. She's been interested in a boy at school, and I thought this might help her get the courage to confront him."

Arthur, hearing this for the first time, looks just as stricken as he did earlier this morning. "A _boy_? What boy? She's not allowed to be interested in any boys! Why hasn't anyone spoken to me about this?"

"Because we knew this was how you would react," Francis huffs.

"Madeline doesn't need a boy in her life right now. She should be focusing on school and relishing the joys of being a child."

"And those joys include having her first crush," Francis counters, and suddenly, he knows exactly why his husband is being so adamant about this issue. A soft, patient smile curls his lips as he says, "Arthur, you can't stop Madeline from maturing, no matter how hard you try. There will come a day when we will no longer be the only men in her life. The same is true for Amelia. There will be boyfriends and heartbreaks, and we need to be prepared."

"Or, the girls can be homeschooled," Arthur suggests, not willing to give up just yet.

"Arthur, listen to yourself."

Francis knows it isn't easy, and he doesn't expect Arthur to relent right away, but he's hoping this conversation will be the first step. He, too, wants to shield the girls from the unpleasantries of romance and dating, but he knows there are some lessons that need to be learned through trial and error. Experience is the best teacher, and if Madeline wants to pursue this boy, then so be it. There will never be a right time for it, and it'll always seem too early.

Arthur sulks in silence for a few minutes, shooting Francis the occasional baleful look from the other side of their bed, until finally, he calms and says, "I owe Madeline an apology, I suppose, or an explanation of my actions, at the very least."

" _Oui_ , I think that would be a good idea."

"Very well. Although it pains me to do so, I'll allow the make-up so long as it is kept minimal."

Francis watches as Arthur takes a deep breath and leaves the room to find Madeline for an overdue heart-to-heart. His husband is visibly flustered and glum, but that's all right—it's only natural. They've survived worse.

And when he hears both Arthur's and the children's laughter emanating from down the hallway no more than five minutes later, he knows they will survive this, too.


	4. Chapter 4

After careful analysis and the conduction of a controlled experiment, Arthur has deduced that yes, the seventh grade does, indeed, for lack of a better word, suck.

He has this epiphany as he's driving the girls to school for yet another day of wholesome education and social stigma. He rounds the corner and pulls up to the street facing the front entrance of the school, only for Madeline to bashfully ask that he park on the side-street instead.

"Why? Is there some kind of event going on that I'm not aware of?" Arthur asks, genuinely interested.

Madeline shakes her head and wrings her fingers, unsure of how to proceed. "Well, no, but—"

"She doesn't want her friends to see you dropping us off," Amelia clarifies helpfully, head tilted to the side.

Arthur stops the car on the aforementioned side-street and turns to look at both of his children. "Why can't your friends see—? Ahh..."

The day has finally come; his own daughters have turned against him and are now ashamed to be seen with him. My God, he should have been mentally prepared for this. When did he become the uncool parent? He swore to himself he'd always make sure the girls were comfortable in his presence—that he would never give them a reason to want to hide him from their friends. And yet, despite all of his efforts, this happens.

The girls amble out of the car, and Arthur follows their lead, breaking out of his stupor. He holds out his arms to give Madeline a hug, but she is hesitant, wary of any of her peers who may be watching.

"Can I give you a hug at home?" she asks timidly, head bowed.

And although Arthur wants to chide her for sweeping him under the rug, he doesn't have the heart to do so. He can tell that Madeline truly cares about the opinions of her friends, and he doesn't quite know how to convince her that she shouldn't.

"All right. I suppose that's fine," he sighs, more than a little crestfallen. He turns to Amelia instead, arms still outstretched and asks, "Where's my hug, ladybug?"

"Dad, don't be so _embarrassing_!"

Wait. When did this happen? When he'd dropped the girls off last week, they were fine! Who corrupted them? Suddenly it's a crime for a father to request a hug from his child?

He lets his arms fall to his sides, frowns, and watches the girls stroll down the block to get to class.

"I love you! Have a good day at school!" he calls after them.

And when he doesn't get a response, he has to stop for a moment to pick up the broken pieces of his heart.

* * *

"Quick, take my pulse."

"Arthur, you're fine."

"No, I've slipped into some alternate reality where my children perceive me as a stranger," Arthur says pitifully, lying on their bed in the master bedroom, one hand clutching at his chest. "I may very well be dying, and you're just standing there."

Francis rolls his eyes and pats his husband's arm soothingly. "You're fine. If you were really ill, you'd do what you usually do and hide it from everyone until you managed to cure yourself. Now get up and tell me what we need from the supermarket. Tomatoes, carrots, celery, what else?"

"I don't know. I'm delirious."

"Arthur."

"Yogurt, I think. What if all of this is a figment of my imagination? Oh, get some cheese as well—Swiss. Francis, I think it might be hypoglycemia that's causing me to hallucinate the slow deterioration of my relationship with the girls. I should check my blood sugar."

"You do that."

"Dad? Papa?"

Both men turn their heads to see Amelia standing in the doorway, waving an envelope lazily in her hand. "My teacher said to give you this letter. Maddie has one, too."

Suddenly feeling completely well and sane again, Arthur briskly gets out of bed and pads over to Amelia, taking the envelope from her with a cross expression already prepared on his face. "Were you misbehaving? Is that what this letter is for?"

"No!" Amelia immediately protests, stamping a foot and folding her arms. "Everyone in class got a letter! Why do you always think I did something wrong?"

Sighing, Arthur's features instantly soften. "You're absolutely right. I shouldn't have been so quick to jump to conclusions," he grumbles before ripping the envelope open and taking a look at the contents. His frown hastily returns, and he raises a brow, turning toward Francis. "Uh-oh."

"'Uh-oh', what?" Amelia asks, curious. She stands on her tippy-toes to read the letter for herself, but it's still too far away for her to see. "Is it something bad?"

Letting out a long sigh, Arthur reads the first sentence from a paragraph written in bold print, "It has come to our attention that a student in your child's class has contracted head lice."

Amelia wrinkles her nose and shouts, "Eww!"

Francis makes a face that rivals Amelia's and takes the letter from Arthur to confirm the news. He continues reading from where the man left off. "If you have any questions or concerns, please contact the school nurse or your child's health care provider."

Wasting no time at all, Arthur moves toward Amelia and catches her by the arm before she can run away. "Come along, I need to look you and your sister over."

"I don't have lice!" Amelia whines, wriggling.

"We won't know for sure until I check. Francis, get Madeline for me, please."

And so, as Arthur drags an uncooperative Amelia from the doorway and down to the living room, Francis retrieves Madeline and brings her over as well. Soon, the whole family is huddled around, and Arthur pulls two chairs into the center of the room. He has Amelia sit in the first one while he sits in the other one behind her, brandishing a fine-toothed comb as he parts her long hair into more manageable sections.

"Do you see anything? Are there bugs in my hair? Are they going to eat my head?" Amelia asks Arthur fearfully, gripping the edge of her chair with both hands. "Dad?"

"Relax and be patient."

"But is there something there?"

"No, I haven't found anything yet."

After a grueling ten minutes, Arthur deems Amelia lice-free and has Madeline take her place, so he can do the same to her. He takes his time even though he can feel Francis breathing down his neck, especially since Madeline's hair is thicker than Amelia's. He doesn't want any surprises.

And it's a good thing he doesn't rush because he finds a few nits. Not many, but they're there, and he puts down the comb with another lengthy sigh. "Well, it looks like you'll have to stop by the pharmacy after getting the groceries, Francis. I'll write down the name of the shampoo we'll need."

"Eww, so Maddie has lice? Gross!" Amelia exclaims, earning a look of disapproval from Arthur for her outburst. She doesn't mean to make her sister feel worse, but by the time she realizes her mistake, it's too late.

Horrified, Madeline begins to cry, prompting both Francis and Arthur to make attempts at soothing her.

"Don't cry, poppet. It's going to be fine. It isn't as bad as you think."

"Your father is right, _ma petite fleur_. We will fix this."

"It's very common. There's no need to be upset. Anyone can get them," Arthur tries to explain. "Papa will run to the store right away to get the medicine you need."

But none of their assurances seem to make a difference. Madeline already seems to be too busy worrying about what people in school will say and think, even though Arthur tells her that no one will have to know aside from the school nurse and possibly her homeroom teacher. As he lectures, Francis takes the opportunity to grab his coat and rush to do the shopping so that they can get started on the treatment as soon as possible. He plants a kiss on Madeline's nose and makes his way out the door, promising to be back in under an hour.

"Look on the bright side—you'll get to miss school for a couple of days!" Amelia says cheerfully, flashing a smile. "And you'll get to stay at home and watch movies and play video games! Hey, having head lice is great! Let me rub my head against yours."

Arthur rolls his eyes and says sharply, "Amelia, if I find you trying to purposefully give yourself lice, you will be _very_ sorry."

"It was just a joke!"

Although Arthur isn't sure if Amelia is being entirely truthful, the supposed joke seems to do the trick anyway because Madeline sneaks a giggle through her tears.

"T-They're not going to eat my head?" Madeline whispers, nibbling on her bottom lip.

Arthur shakes his head and chuckles wryly. "Of course not, silly child."

"But Amelia said—"

"Oh, yes, I forgot that Dr. Amelia knows best. She is _clearly_ an expert on these types of malaises," Arthur says with unabashed sarcasm.

Playing along, Amelia raises her chin with an air of pompousness and says, "I don't know what you guys would do without me."

"Right then, so what do you think we should do next, doctor?" Arthur asks her.

"Uhmm," Amelia falters, thinking hard. "I mean, it's obvious, isn't it? It's so obvious I don't even have to say it."

"Are you suggesting we change the sheets and pillows on Madeline's bed and wash them thoroughly?" Arthur supplies, quirking his brows.

"Yeah, of course that's what I was going to say!"

Arthur rolls his eyes once more and takes Madeline by the hand before guiding their little trio up the stairs. While the girls wait out in the hallway, he strips Madeline's bed of any and all coverings and puts them into a plastic bag so they can be thrown into the washing machine later. He also collects some other fabrics that might have traces of the pesky parasites like Madeline's fleece hats, scarves, and the sweaters and shirts she has worn in the past week.

Once that's sorted, Arthur redecorates the bed with fresh, clean linens, all of which will have to be washed again once Madeline is treated. As a precaution, he does the same to Amelia's bed.

"Now, Amelia, I want you to keep your distance from Madeline for a few days," he says when he's done.

Amelia frowns but agrees. "I know, Dad."

"If I catch you disobeying my instructions, I'll wrap your hair in plastic."

"You can trust me! Don't have a cow."

Soon after, Francis returns with a car full of groceries. He parks in the driveway, and before he bothers bringing any of the bags inside, he hurries to the front door and hands Arthur the medicated shampoo he'd asked for, eyes shimmering with worry.

"Is she okay? Is she still crying?"

"Everything's fine now. Let me help you carry the—"

"No, no. You go and take care of Madeline. I'll manage to bring everything inside on my own," Francis insists, lightly pushing Arthur to go back inside the house.

"Francis, it's _lice_ not pneumonia," Arthur huffs, but disappears anyway. He brings Madeline into the bathroom, sits her on the nearby counter, and opens the packaging for the shampoo. Amelia, naturally, tags along because she wants to see the drama unfold, and although she won't openly say it, she is concerned for her sister as well.

Sitting perfectly still, Madeline helplessly asks, "Is it going to hurt?"

"No," Arthur reassures as he pulls on a pair of gloves and pumps some of the gooey stuff into her hair. "It might feel a little cold, but it shouldn't hurt."

After letting the lather stay in Madeline's hair for about fifteen minutes, Arthur decides it has been long enough and runs a warm bath. He rinses the oily substance out of her hair, gets her completely clean, and helps her into some pajamas since bedtime is quickly approaching.

And poor Madeline must be exhausted from the whole ordeal because she heads straight to bed afterward and falls asleep. Arthur tucks her in, kisses her forehead, and turns out the light in her room before shutting the door halfway.

"Is she going to be okay?" Amelia asks worriedly, standing on guard in the hallway.

"She'll be just fine," Arthur whispers, patting Amelia's back. "I'll comb through her hair in the morning, put the medicine on again, give her another bath, and that'll be the end of that."

Amelia exhales with relief. "Okay, good."

"Go brush your teeth and get ready for bed. I'll be over to tuck you in soon."

"Okay!"

There is, however, one issue that hasn't been addressed yet. Or two, rather. Arthur treks down the stairs, finds Francis in the kitchen, and tells him, "All right, sit down and show me your head."

"As if I would ever let you touch _my_ hair," Francis scoffs, affronted.

"Well, I suppose you'll be sleeping on the couch then because you're not allowed into our bed until I'm certain you haven't contracted anything from Madeline."

A short battle of wills takes place, but Arthur easily wins, and Francis relinquishes his luscious locks. He lets Arthur pick through the wavy strands, waiting impatiently for him to finish.

"Hmm… Just as I suspected, not even the lice want to live in your hair," Arthur teases him, falling into a contagious fit of laughter when Francis turns around and smacks him in the side with a stray magazine that he finds on the table.

"All right, now it's your turn," Francis declares, grabbing Arthur by the shoulder and steering him into the chair.

" _Me_?"

"Yes, you. Just because you're a physician and think you're immune to everything doesn't mean you get to skip your turn."

"I can assure you that I don't have any—"

Francis gives him a flat look. "Do _you_ want to sleep on the couch?"

"Fair enough," Arthur grunts, sitting down. He squirms when Francis's hand brushes against the shorter hairs on the back of his head, ticklish.

Fully aware of his husband's predicament, Francis curls his lips into a smirk and presses a feathery kiss to Arthur's vulnerable neck, causing the man to jolt in his chair and knock his knee into the edge of the table in surprise.

"Damned conniving frog!" Arthur yells at him, rubbing the injured knee. He attempts to stand up, but Francis pushes him back down with a laugh.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Stay _still_. That's it… Oh, what's this?"

" _What_?"

"I see a little louse and some nits."

"You're lying."

"Arthur, I'm being entirely honest. I can bring you a hand mirror so you can see for yourself."

And so, that's exactly what Francis does, and sure enough, Arthur can see the damned things in his hair, too.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me. Bloody hell."

"You should have been more careful around Madeline. Then again, you probably caught them from her before today," Francis scolds him, wandering off for a minute before returning with the infamous shampoo. "Now hold still and let me take care of you."

Arthur cringes and immediately turns his head away, obstinate. "I can do it myself."

"Now, now, it's no reason to be upset," Francis mocks him, gripping Arthur's shoulder firmly to keep him in place. "It looks like you'll be sleeping on the couch after all. Let me get some gloves. Don't move, _mon cher_."

Although Arthur complains throughout the entire process, Francis does manage to lather the medicated shampoo into his dry hair efficiently. They wait fifteen minutes, and then Arthur stands up to take a shower, at which point Francis tests his luck by saying, "Would you like me to wash your hair for you, _mon amour_?"

Arthur grabs the magazine that's still lying on the table, rolls it up, and hits Francis's arm hard enough for it to sting.

"So, that's a no, then?"

* * *

At this point, Arthur isn't sure if he's going to be able to survive the seventh grade.

When Francis breaks the news to him on an innocent Saturday morning that Madeline has plans to go to the movies with a boy in her class, he's just about ready for the heavens above to take his soul and spare him the agony of having to be a witness to the entire thing. Why not just stab him in the chest with a knife? It would be more forgiving than this!

"I'll be driving Madeline to the theater, and I'll be there to pick her up when the movie is over, so you don't need to worry," Francis tells him, smiling a little at being able to see the full extent of Arthur's protective side. " _And_ she will have her phone with her in case something happens."

But none of this is enough to placate Arthur.

"I want to have a word with this boy. I refuse to let my daughter go off with some stranger."

"He's twelve! What's the worst thing he could possibly do?"

"Break our sweet Madeline's heart, that's what!"

"Oh, Arthur, don't you remember what it was like to have your first love? They're just children. Let them feel what it's like to be infatuated."

Arthur mutters something under his breath, back hunched.

"What was that?" Francis asks him. "I didn't hear you."

"I said, 'you were my first love,'" Arthur murmurs, a little louder. He has gone completely red.

"Really? Your _first_? You weren't ever interested in anybody else when you were young and hormonal?"

Arthur shakes his head, and Francis can't help but make an 'aww' sound before walking over to give his husband a sloppy kiss.

"I'm honored, then," Francis says, quite flattered. "How about we _both_ drop Madeline off at the theater, and you can have a word with Gilbert then?"

"Someone has to stay with Amelia."

"We'll only be gone for twenty or thirty minutes."

"Okay," Arthur agrees, still a bit gruff.

And, my lord, Arthur isn't as being as dramatic as Francis initially thinks he's being, because watching his daughter get out of the car and greet Gilbert with a feeble smile is one of the most painful moments of Francis's life.

Wordlessly, Arthur steps out of the passenger's seat and walks up to the pair of lovebirds, wearing his signature stern expression. He approaches Gilbert first and shakes the boy's hand firmly, treating the child as though he is twenty rather than twelve.

"Hello, Gilbert. I'm Madeline's father," Arthur introduces himself.

"Hi, Mr. Kirkland-Bonnefoy," Gilbert replies with great confidence and gusto.

"I expect you to be a gentleman to Madeline, understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"And she will get to choose the movie."

"Uh-huh."

"And you will take good care of her."

"Yup."

"And you won't pressure her to do anything she isn't comfortable doing."

"No, sir."

"And if at any point she decides she wants to leave, you won't argue with her."

"Nope."

Arthur scrutinizes the boy, eyes roving up and down, and then squeezes the boy's shoulder. "All right. Have a good time… Madeline?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Come here for a moment."

Madeline stands right in front of him, radiating beauty inside and out. She is a young woman now, and there's no denying it.

Arthur wraps one arm around her small shoulders, kisses her head, and says weakly, "Papa will pick you up later."

Gilbert walks through the entrance of the theater, holds one door open for Madeline, and they go running off together, disappearing into the vastness beyond.

With a heavy heart, Arthur gets back into the car, which is where he finds Francis crying behind the steering wheel, trying to shield his bloodshot eyes with one hand. He's ashamed at being caught in such an emotional state.

"Oh, Francis, it's okay, you numpty. He seems like a level-headed boy."

"No boy is level-headed," Francis gasps, accepting a tissue from Arthur.

"Maybe I should drive?" Arthur suggests, clasping Francis's trembling hands in his.

"Please do."


	5. Chapter 5

Eighth grade. Somehow, Francis's and Arthur's sanity carries them through another grade level. At first, the eighth grade goes by quietly. It's not all that unlike the seventh grade, and many of the issues that arise aren't new territory, for which both men are thankful. They thought that once the girls officially turned thirteen, all hell would break loose, but things have been manageable.

In fact, they almost make it through the entire year without having to deal with any real curveballs. That changes, however, as the school term wanes to its ending.

Arthur knows there's going to be a problem when Amelia comes plodding down the stairs one evening and comes to sit next to him on the couch, pouting. He waits for her to explain herself, and when she doesn't, he realizes that she's not going to speak unless he prompts her.

"Why the long face, my dear?"

Amelia's pout becomes more pronounced and, without preamble, she drops her head into Arthur's lap dolefully. "I think something's wrong with me."

Here they go. Arthur cups a hand atop her head and asks, "Why? What happened?"

"I dunno... Love happened. Everybody around me is dating and stuff, and I haven't even kissed anyone yet."

He's tempted to call Francis to come in here and talk to Amelia about romance, but he has a feeling Amelia would prefer to watch him awkwardly try to explain the inner machinations of the young, restless heart. "Well, everyone starts being interested in relationships at their own pace, Amelia. I didn't start dating until my twenties, and that was when I met Papa."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. I just... I don't feel like I love anybody yet, y'know? No one gives me butterflies or makes me feel funny. Maddie's got Gilbert, but I don't have someone like that," Amelia laments, leaning into Arthur's hand. "Does that make me weird?"

"No, of course it doesn't. You have plenty of time for dating, so there's no need to rush. You're only thirteen, love."

"But Maddie's thirteen!"

Arthur clicks his tongue and brushes Amelia's bangs out of her eyes. "Why are you suddenly so concerned about this?"

"No reason."

"I can tell when you're lying to me."

Amelia makes a disgruntled noise and looks up into his green eyes. "The eighth grade prom is in two days, and I still don't have anybody to go with. I'll probably just stay home."

"But Papa already helped you find such a delightful dress. You don't need a date to enjoy yourself at prom. You can always go with a group of friends."

"All of my friends have dates though!"

Arthur sighs and tries to think about a solution to this serious predicament. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with going alone."

"That's just sad! Everybody will think I'm some lonely loser!" Amelia shouts in frustration, pausing when a sharp pain runs through her stomach. She screws her face up into a wince, and a shiver crawls up her spine.

"Are you all right?" Arthur asks, studying her carefully. Something isn't right. He has a brief sense of impending doom, but it goes away as soon as Amelia nods fervently, almost completely forgetting about the episode.

"I'm fine. My stomach is just acting dumb. I think I had too much to eat at dinner."

"Hmm, well, as I was saying, there's no shame in not having a date. I'm sure there will be other boys and girls without dates, so you needn't worry."

Amelia stares at him and nods again, but Arthur can tell she hasn't taken his words seriously. She rises from the couch, adjusts her t-shirt to keep it from riding up, and goes upstairs with a dispirited sigh.

He knew he should've called Francis.

* * *

The world hates her. Amelia's pretty sure Mother Nature's out to get her because first she's stuck being one of the only girls in her class without a date for the prom, and to top it off, now she's got this strange stomach ache that just won't go away. For a long while, she isn't able to fall asleep because she keeps thinking about how Madeline's going to be able to dance with Gilbert and have fun while she'll have to sit on the sidelines and fantasize about what things could've been like if she could've just found herself a suitable boy sooner.

Eventually, sleep does claim her, but only momentarily. She wakes up in a bleary haze some time during the night, drenched in her own sweat and covered in goosebumps. Her stomach feels worse, and it's not the same kind of pain she's had from cramps or anything like that. It's a new kind of pain, dull and throbbing and incessant.

She rolls out of bed with a little groan, which isn't the best idea because her stomach immediately retaliates by flaring up. It's as though someone is repeatedly beating her with a mallet, and as she drags her feet into the hallway and over to Dad and Papa's room, it gets worse and worse. By the time she's at their door, she's crying, even though she doesn't remember ever letting the tears out of her eyes.

"Guys," she calls out to her sleeping parents, now doubled over. One of her sobs manages to rouse Papa, and he squints through the darkness with a questioning look on his face, still groggy.

"What is it, _mon lapin_?"

"I-I don't f-feel so good."

Papa flicks the bedside lamp on, filling the room with dim light. "Arthur," he says sluggishly before shaking Dad's shoulder. "Arthur, Amelia's ill."

Dad draws in a sharp breath through his mouth as he wakes up, blinking tired eyes at Papa. "Francis, it's four o'clock in the bleeding morning."

"Amelia's ill," Papa repeats, and this time, Dad seems to understand him because he springs up into an upright position, no longer complaining.

He shuffles out of bed, puts on his slippers, rubs the back of his neck, and walks up to her, one hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"M-My stomach," she says, sobs increasing in volume. It really, really _hurts_.

Dad ushers her back into her bedroom, has her lie down, and gently pulls her pajama top up to her chest to reveal her abdomen. "Let me see… You're clammy all over."

"What's wrong with me?"

He rests the back of his hand on her cheek and frowns. "Feverish… I'm going to press down on your stomach now. You'll tell me where it hurts, okay?"

He presses around her bellybutton and down by her ovaries, but none of that hurts. The real pain comes when he moves farther to the right. At first, he presses down and she doesn't really feel anything, but a second after he lets go and removes his hand, the pain is so sudden that she cries out in surprise, practically seeing stars.

"Rebound pain in the lower right quadrant, low-grade fever, bloated abdomen… That's not your stomach, poppet. It's your appendix."

The word 'appendix' sounds familiar, and Amelia recalls that she once claimed her appendix hurt as an excuse to try to fool Papa into thinking she was too sick to go to school. That had been an imaginary illness then, but this, this is very real and very painful.

Dad stands up again and goes to her dresser, pulling out a pair of sweatpants, a sweater, and some socks. He deposits the clothes at the end of the bed, and then orders, "Hips up."

A little shakily, Amelia lifts her hips, and Dad switches her pajama bottoms with the sweatpants. Then, the soft, warm socks find her feet.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Getting you changed because we're going to the hospital," Dad says with the most casual air ever. He doesn't seem at all panicked by the situation, and Amelia isn't sure if that's supposed to be reassuring or not.

"I-I don't want to go to the hospital!"

"I know you don't, but I'm afraid you don't have a choice," Dad says with a yawn, leaving the room for a moment to change into something more presentable as well. Amelia hears him exchange a few words with Papa, and they end up having a mini argument in the hallway.

"I'm coming with you both," Papa hisses.

"No, there's no need. In two hours, it'll be time to get Madeline ready for school. You can come and join us after you've dropped her off. I promise nothing important will happen until then."

"But if it is appendicitis, she's going to undergo surgery! I need to be there!"

Dad makes an exasperated noise—the same noise he made several days ago when Amelia knocked over his favorite mug. "And the surgery, if she is to have one, won't happen for a while. By the time they confirm the diagnosis and prepare her, it'll be well into the morning. Stay here with Madeline for now, and I'll call you when you're needed, okay?"

Papa doesn't say anything for a moment, until he finally whispers, "Okay."

Dad comes back into her room, gives her an encouraging smile, and helps her into a sitting position so he can put some sneakers on her feet.

"Dad?"

"Yes, love?"

"I'm scared."

He hums softly and kisses her cheek. "Don't be scared. Everything will be fine. I'm going to need you to trust me and be brave, all right?"

"All right," she whispers back. She does trust Dad, more than she trusts anyone else in the world. He supports her as she stands, and they slowly make their way downstairs and out to the car, the night air feeling crisp and mild against her face. Once they make it, Dad sits her in the passenger's seat and reclines it so that she's lying down and more comfortable.

Then, Dad gets in the driver's seat, puts the key in the ignition, and starts the car—still as calm as ever. He changes the radio station to something soft and pleasant, and it helps take Amelia's mind off of the pain a little bit. For a moment, she is grateful Papa stayed home because if he were here, he'd probably be having an aneurism and yelling at Dad to hurry up. While she appreciates Papa's concern, right now she doesn't need anyone to further frighten her.

It's a short, ten-minute drive to the hospital. Dad parks the car nearby, helps her get up again, and they walk into the emergency room's pediatric triage. It isn't busy, and she is taken into another room within minutes, where a nice nurse sits her down in a plastic chair and takes her vitals. A thermometer is placed under her tongue, a pulse oximeter is clamped down onto her index finger, and a blood pressure cuff is wrapped around her upper arm. It's all a little overwhelming, but Dad is with her through it all, crouched beside her chair and holding a hand on her knee to calm her.

The nurse confirms that she's running a small temperature, and that her blood pressure is a little high, but that's probably just due to her white-coat syndrome.

Dad answers a few questions about her medical history, and then, they're brought to a room with a curtain separating it down the middle. Amelia lies down on the awaiting bed, and Dad helps adjust it for her so she can rest easier. He also snaps a hospital bracelet around her wrist.

"What's going to happen now?" she asks, reaching over to hold Dad's hand.

"We'll wait for a doctor. He'll tell you exactly what I already told you at home and probably order a CT scan to confirm that it's appendicitis. Then, if it's confirmed, you'll be prepped for surgery."

"Surgery?" she murmurs, shaking. Forget prom and forget the darn date. She just wants to go home and make it out of here in one piece. Middle school prom means nothing at this point.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Dad says simply, sitting down in the chair beside her bed.

And, as expected, a doctor comes in to have a look at her abdomen, and he checks her over the same exact way Dad had already done, pressing on her lower right side and making her dizzy with pain all over again.

She gets nauseous and throws up shortly afterward. Dad gives her a bedpan just in time, and once she's done, she doesn't feel any better. Not even a little. The. World. Hates. Her.

The doctor then says he's going to take her blood, and Amelia whines in protest, hating needles. Dad just squeezes her hand and tells her it'll be okay. In the end, even though she whimpers about it, she still gets her blood taken, and there's nothing she can do about it. It hurts a bit, and when a cotton ball and a band-aid are plastered onto the punctured spot, she is relieved.

There is, also, the whole business about peeing in a cup. Dad walks her to the bathroom and has the audacity to ask if she needs any help, at which point Amelia insists she can take care of it by herself, and fortunately, she manages to do it without messing up or making a fool of herself.

Then, Dad's predictions are confirmed when the doctor says she's going to need a CT scan. She's made to drink a horrible liquid called 'contrast' that's supposed to light up her insides on the scan, and when she has to down what feels like a whole gallon of the disgusting stuff, her bravery collapses for a while and she lets herself cry, feeling miserable. Eventually, Dad gets her to stop, but that quavering feeling in her chest is still there.

Dad isn't allowed to go with her for the scan. He has to wait outside. She really doesn't want to be alone, but the technologist woman is funny and gets her not to be so sad about everything.

"Just a few minutes, and you'll be able to go back to Daddy, all right?" the woman tells her kindly, before helping her onto the strange table she has to lie on for the scan. It's no worse than an x-ray, which Amelia has had done before, and so, she makes it through without much trouble and gets to return to Dad, as promised.

She's brought back to bed, and when her head hits the starched pillow, she realizes how sleepy she is, and dozes off for a nap, appendix still throbbing away in the background. She's vaguely aware of Dad singing quietly to her in the background and wiping away the sweat on her head with a cool cloth. Somewhere in that blurry timeframe, her lab results come back, and the doctor tells Dad that yes, it's most certainly appendicitis, and she'll be going into surgery within the hour.

A few minutes later, she fully wakes from her nap, and Papa is now in the room instead of Dad, petting her arm soothingly.

"How are you feeling, _ma chérie_?"

"Bad," she croaks, trembling with the force of a sudden sob. "Where's Dad?"

"He's talking to the surgeon. He'll be back any second," Papa murmurs, running a thumb under her eyes. "Madeline is very worried about you. She wanted to be here, but I promised her that your father and I would take good care of you. She'll visit you after the surgery."

She pictures herself lying on the operating table, being cut open by a bunch of people she doesn't know. What if they make a mistake? What if they take out her spleen by accident? What if—?

Her eyes flood with tears yet again, and she berates herself for being a baby. She told Dad she would be brave, but she can't do it—not when she knows a million and one things could go wrong. What if she dies?

Dad comes back into the room, and when he sees her crying again, his shoulders slump. For someone who is functioning on about four hours of sleep, he still seems fairly alert and awake.

"My poor darling," Papa says, bringing a tissue to her eyes while Dad walks over and tucks her hair behind her ears.

"T-They're going to chop me open!" she gasps, and now her stomach hurts even _more_. Well, technically not her stomach, but still!

Dad laughs a little. "They're not going to 'chop' you open. It's a tiny incision, and since your appendix isn't abscessed, it'll be done by a small tube called a laparoscopy. You'll be asleep through the entire procedure. A nurse will come in soon to give you a round of antibiotics to prevent any infection from developing. Appendectomies are one of the simplest and most basic operations."

"Can't you just take out my appendix?" she mutters, hugging Dad tightly.

"I'm afraid not. I'm not a surgeon."

She wants to protest some more, but before she can do so, Dad makes her change into a hospital gown, and it dawns upon her just how cold it is in the hospital. Papa and Dad pull some sheets and blankets up to her chest, but she's still a little chilled.

The nurse comes in to put an IV in her arm, so Amelia can get the antibiotics. It hurts more than the blood test, but at this point, she's so worn out that she can't even be bothered to complain.

After that, everything happens so quickly. A man dressed in blue scrubs lifts her from her bed and onto a stretcher, and Papa and Dad tell her to relax and that they'll be waiting for her when she wakes up. She cries out for them to stay with her, and the guy in the scrubs says that Dad can stay with her until she falls asleep.

She's rolled away into another room, one hand wrapped around Dad's, and then a new doctor arrives, the anesthesiologist, and she puts a mask over Amelia's face, carefully securing it over her nose and mouth.

Dad gives her hand a squeeze and says, "Count down from a hundred, love."

A warm feeling swells in her chest, and her head feels like a block of lead. "Ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven, ninety-six, ninety-five…"

She's too sleepy to go on, and the last thing she feels is a kiss being planted on her forehead.

And then, everything is dark and silent.

* * *

Flowers… She opens her eyes and sees tulips on the bedside table, and above them, there's a bundle of floating balloons with smiling faces on them and cartoon characters saying 'get well soon.'

She blinks three times, still very sleepy, and sees Madeline's blue eyes peering over at her. Her sister reaches out a finger to poke her awake, but Papa stops her and chides her before she can get away with it.

Then, a large hand touches her forehead, and Amelia sinks against the safety it brings. Green eyes meet hers, and Dad's shaggy blond hair comes into view, a little fuzzy around the edges. She can tell he still hasn't slept.

"Hey, there," he whispers, bringing a cup of cool water to her lips.

She takes a careful sip, and it rids her of the cotton-like feeling in her mouth. "H-Hi."

"How do you feel?"

"My head hurts," she mumbles, but the pain in her abdomen is finally gone. Everything feels a little tender and sore, but it's not so bad. "Did they take the right thing out?"

Dad chuckles, and the sound of his laugh makes her feel a thousand times better. She lets out a happy sigh when he ruffles her hair.

"Yes, poppet. The surgery went well, and you're going to be just fine with enough rest. I believe Madeline has a gift to make you feel better."

And sure enough, her sister puts a cinnamon colored teddy bear in her arms. It has a red ribbon around its neck, and it smells a little like Maddie.

"Thank-you," Amelia tells her before nuzzling her face in the bear's fur. "I like it a lot… Can we go home now?"

"Not yet," Dad says. "You'll be kept overnight for observation, and then you'll get to come home."

She spends most of the day in and out of sleep anyway, and every time she wakes up, either Papa, Dad, or Madeline are there to talk to her, and for a while, she feels like the luckiest girl on the planet. Who else has such awesome people to look after them? She takes back all of the mean things she's ever said about her family. They're too good to her, and she doesn't deserve them.

Dad, of course, volunteers to spend the night in the hospital with her, since only one parent is allowed to stay after visiting hours. This means he puts himself through a second consecutive evening without sleep, but he doesn't seem to mind. Amelia can't even put into words how thankful she is for his presence. He's there to bug the nurses to administer her pain medication on time, gets copies of her lab-work, isn't afraid to argue with her doctor when he doesn't agree with something, and ensures that all of the proper protocol and precautions are met and taken.

When morning finally comes, he signs the necessary forms to have her discharged, and the nurses don't even bother telling him the treatment plan that should be followed once Amelia is taken home because they know Dad doesn't need to be told what to do. He makes her an appointment to get the stitches removed for the following week, and then they're allowed to leave.

* * *

It's so wonderful to finally be home. When Amelia walks through the front door, she steps right into one of Papa's warm hugs. He promises to make her some food that will be easy on her stomach, and then Dad helps her get situated on the couch so she can watch some television and relax. She's not allowed to do anything strenuous for six weeks, but school, apparently, isn't considered strenuous, and so, she'll have to go back to class in a few days.

In the late afternoon, Madeline comes down the stairs dressed in her prom dress, and that's when Amelia finally realizes what day it is, and that she's going to miss middle school prom after all. She feels a twinge of sorrow, but she knows she's in no condition to be up and about for so many hours, so all she can do is feel a bit sorry for herself as Papa and Dad take pictures of Madeline looking all pretty and flawless.

There's still her high school prom, she supposes, and since she can't get appendicitis ever again, maybe she'll make it for that one instead.

"You look awesome, Maddie," she tells her sister from the couch, smiling. She really is happy for her, and she's sure that Gilbert is going to be stunned by how amazing she looks as well. "Tell me all about it when you come back, okay?"

"Definitely," Madeline says, coming over to the couch to give her a careful hug, minding her dressing and stitches. "Feel better soon."

"I will," Amelia promises.

Papa drives Maddie to the school, camera ready and fully charged, and when the two walk out the door together, Amelia sulks a bit, trying her best not to feel too gloomy.

Dad comes over to the couch, sits down by her feet, and says, "I'm sorry, love."

"It's okay, it's not that bigguva deal."

"I know it meant a lot to you."

"It's okay, really," she insists, mustering a wistful smile. "I'll get over it."

And she assumes that's the last time they'll talk about the issue. She watches T.V. for another hour, and by that time, Papa comes back from dropping Madeline off and starts chatting with Dad in the kitchen over a cup of tea. She starts feeling kind of tired again, and so, she grabs the pillow and blanket Dad gave her and brings them up to her room with her, taking it slow as she goes up the stairs.

She gets comfortable in bed and thinks that maybe she'll go on her laptop for a bit and then go to sleep early, but her plans are ruined when she hears Papa call her from downstairs twenty minutes later.

Wincing a bit, she climbs out of bed and stands at the top of the steps, wondering why he would possibly be calling her when he knows she's not exactly having the easiest time moving around.

She sighs and is about to tell him she's wants to go back to bed, but then she raises her eyes and everything stops for a moment.

She can't believe it.

"Why aren't you wearing your dress, _mon lapin_?"

Papa and Dad are standing side-by-side at the bottom of the stairs, dressed up in tuxedos and ties—looking exactly like they're ready to go to prom.

A huge smile spreads over her face, and a hundred butterflies seem to set themselves free in her chest. "W-What?"

"It's not polite to keep your dates waiting," Dad adds, grinning.

A laugh escapes her, and her eyes water, but this time, her tears are happy tears. She can't believe her parents would do something this nice for her. Then again, she shouldn't have expected anything less. They are, after all, two gentlemen.

She hurries back into her room and puts her dress on along with her pink flats, and then she makes her way down the steps. Dad and Papa loop their arms with each of hers and help her into the living room, which has been transformed into a makeshift ballroom. The couch has been pushed up against the wall, the stereo system has been turned on to play some prom-like music, and the coffee table is littered with snacks—snacks that are, of course, light enough for Amelia's still recovering body to digest like saltines, little cups filled with applesauce, and Jell-O.

"You guys are the best," Amelia says, face hurting from how much she's smiling. "This is way better than the prom at school."

Papa and Dad each take one of her hands, and they dance with her, and in that moment, Amelia is filled with so much love for them that she can't even speak. She just throws her arms around both of them once the song is over and holds them tight, refusing to let go.

They make it through a few more songs, and when Amelia tires, she stuffs her face with snacks and juice. Her eyes start drooping without her permission, and she feels Dad lift her into his arms so he can carry her to bed. Papa leads the way, and he fluffs her pillows and tucks her in once Dad puts her down. It's not even that late, but Amelia already feels like she hasn't slept in forever.

Dad and Papa take turns kissing her goodnight, and then they shut the blinds and turn off the light, whispering to each other as they walk out and retreat into the hallway.

It's a night she will always remember.


	6. Chapter 6

"Oh, Arthur, don't start sobbing on my shoulder _now_. The procession hasn't even begun yet."

"I'm not sobbing, you git! My eyes are merely watering from the dust in this damned auditorium. I told you to put the allergy medication in your camera bag," Arthur grumbles, pawing at his running eyes.

"If I had listened to you, I would have had to carry around an entire pharmacy in my bag! And since when do you have such a serious dust allergy anyway?" Francis asks with growing amusement.

"Since the beginning of my existence. Shows what a good husband you are—you aren't even aware of my list of medical conditions."

"Yes, you're right. You may as well sign the divorce papers now," Francis jokes, although his voice is full of affection and fondness. "You know, Arthur, it's okay to be emotional. Your secret will be safe with me."

Arthur pretends not to hear him and goes right back to rubbing his eyes, which have become increasingly scarlet and puffy. He at least takes comfort in the fact that he isn't the only sensitive soul in the vicinity. Dozens of pairs of parents are gathered around, cameras at the ready as they anxiously await the class of eighth graders that are supposed to appear from the back doors of the school.

And although Arthur knows that it's only an eighth grade graduation, and there's still high school, college, and possibly even grad school to look forward to the girls finishing, it's still a big step in the girls' academic journeys, and, by Jove, if he wants to cry, he will.

A hush comes over the parents, and sure enough, the doors are pulled open to reveal twenty-seven thirteen-year-olds, all dressed in matching blue caps and gowns. Francis positions himself on the edge of the center aisle for a good camera angle, until a teacher tells him to move to the side and ruins the perfect shot.

The first students begin to filter in, full of smiles and unsuppressed enthusiasm. Arthur waits impatiently for the girls to come into view, and when they do, he takes control of the video camera while Francis takes a slew of pictures with his phone.

Arthur waves at the girls, and Amelia waves exuberantly back while Madeline blushes and lowers her eyes. It will look adorable on the home video, he's certain.

All in all, it's a beautiful ceremony. The children sing a few songs about moving on to the next grandeurs of life, some teachers and the principal speak, and Madeline delivers the valedictorian address that she has practiced three dozen times in the mirror flawlessly. Toward the end, as the diplomas are handed out, Arthur sees Francis wipe at his eyes while taking photos. He considers teasing him for it, but he supposes he can let his husband get away with it this time.

The girls run over to them as soon as the formalities are finished, and a group hug commences. Then, they get into the car and go out for dinner, where Amelia stuffs herself with breadsticks, and Madeline orders herself pancakes for dinner because Arthur and Francis make an exception to the "breakfast should only be eaten in the morning" rule.

And as Arthur and Francis watch the girls chat about their classmates from across the restaurant's table, it seems to occur to both of them that this is only just the beginning.

* * *

Things become complicated when high school rounds the corner. Talks on the living room couch and hugs aren't as effective as they used to be in dealing with issues. The girls become naturally more independent at fourteen, and while that is lovely in its own right, it also has the added effect of making the girls distant. Distant, at least, when it comes to personal matters, it would seem.

Once, Arthur has the audacity to ask if Amelia has met anyone interesting who has caught her eye, and she immediately storms away and shouts, "I'm sick of people trying to pressure me into stuff."

"I'm not pressuring you. It was merely a question," Arthur sighs guiltily. He had assumed the reason behind Amelia's quietness of late could have had something to do with a love interest, but apparently, he was wrong. He makes a conscious effort to be more understanding and careful with his choice of words. He vows to listen.

So when Amelia comes to him the following week and says she wants to try out for the girls' basketball team, he's more inclined to hear her plea.

"My gym teacher said I have raw talent and should give it a try."

"Balancing academics and sports can be difficult, but if you're willing to make the commitment, then I don't see a problem, love," he reluctantly agrees, a strained smile on his face.

He once swore he would never allow his children to play any sports, not when there are so many things that could possibly go wrong—torn ligaments, broken bones, sprains, bruises, etc. He's not sure whether his heart can take it, but he can't muster the willpower to tell Amelia no, especially not after how uncharacteristically docile and well-behaved she has been lately.

And thus, that's how he finds himself sitting in the creaking bleachers of the twins' high school gymnasium a month later with Francis and Madeline on either side of him, cheering Amelia on as her team plays the district's champions.

Admittedly, Amelia _is_ very good. She makes an excellent point guard, and though she is one of the youngest players on the team, it's clear that the upperclassmen respect her. She is in the middle of every play, every pass, and every assist without ever dominating the court herself. She sneaks past defenders and keeps them on their toes with how quickly she can become unpredictable. It's a leadership position that she shines in, and it would be a crime to keep her from playing.

However, that doesn't mean Arthur is happy about it in the least. Seeing Amelia's smile makes him tolerate the sport, but every time he sees his daughter get shoved or jostled on the court, he rises out of his seat and needs Francis to keep him from verbally assaulting any teenagers by yanking on his arm and forcing him to sit again.

But there is one incident during which not even Francis can tame his rage. Toward the final minutes of the regional championship, a defender plows into Amelia's side to get the ball, and the force of the impact is so strong that Amelia is knocked into the sidelines. The whistle is blown for an obvious foul, and Arthur jumps off of the bleachers in a blind frenzy and invites himself onto the court.

"What the bloody hell was _that_?" he demands, shooting a dark glare at the girl who could very well have broken his daughter's ribs.

In the end, Amelia walks away with nothing worse than a twisted ankle while Arthur walks away with hypertension and a heart rate of one hundred and ten beats per minute.

Near the end of the season, Francis and Arthur are convinced Amelia will pursue the sport for a few more years, at the very least. That changes, however, when Amelia comes home one afternoon with a deep-set frown on her face, sullen and defeated, and declares, "I'm quitting basketball."

Both Francis and Arthur raise their brows and exchange looks of intrigue as they silently debate who should try and investigate first.

Francis takes a gamble. "But I thought you love playing basketball, _mon lapin_."

"Not anymore."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Francis sighs, and Arthur decides it's his turn to try.

"It's rude to be dismissive, poppet. This is quite a drastic decision, and we want to make sure you've thought this through."

"I've thought about it," Amelia insists, dropping her backpack in the foyer before kicking off her abused sneakers angrily.

Arthur shakes his head at her. "Let's be reasonable about this."

"Look, I'm old enough to decide for myself, right? The season is almost over, so it's not that big 'a deal. I'll finish the last two weeks, and then I won't play next year."

"We will respect your decision, but we would like to know if something happened that may have influenced your choice," Francis says, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Something is bothering you. Did someone hurt you?"

"I said I'm not ready to talk about it," Amelia growls, shrugging away from Francis. "It's just the same stupid nonsense."

"What nonsense?" Arthur prompts, blocking the stairs, and… are those tears in Amelia's eyes? She lowers her head, but Arthur gently takes hold of her chin and raises it. "Amelia..."

"Please, it's dumb, and it really isn't worth talking about," she hiccups, wrinkling her nose.

"It's not 'dumb,' if it's serious enough to make you this upset," Arthur notes.

"T-This stupid guy… I asked him if he'd want to hang out some time, and he said he doesn't date 'unfeminine, sporty chicks.'"

"Who was this boy?"

"It doesn't matter."

" _Oh_ , it matters, "Arthur snarls, muscles taut.

"Arthur, please, going after the boy will only make things worse," Francis reasons, rolling his eyes. "Come, Amelia, I know exactly what you need—ice cream and one of those sugar cookies I baked yesterday. Then, we can talk about why you're _not_ going to quit basketball over some foolish boy. No boy is worth giving up one's dreams for. And no boy is worth your tears either."

With Francis taking charge of consoling Amelia, Arthur gets himself some tea and thinks that if he ever finds the bleeding idiot who hurt his daughter's feelings, not even God will be able to help the poor bastard.

That settles it, no more dating until the girls turn thirty.

* * *

The day Madeline begins rebelling, they know it may as well be the apocalypse.

Francis finds her waltzing into the house at midnight (on a school night nonetheless), worried sick with an equally perturbed Arthur at his side in the bedroom. His first inclination is to yell, but Amelia is sleeping down the hall, and if he wakes her, she'll be grumpy and intolerable in the morning.

Instead, he walks out of the bedroom with Arthur in tow and directs the young delinquent of theirs down the steps and into the kitchen, which is far away enough from Amelia's room to render their conversation indistinguishable as long as they don't shout too much.

"Sorry, guys. Gilbert wanted me to meet some friends of his, and I lost track of time," Madeline says calmly, as though she is running five minutes late as opposed to five hours.

"And why didn't you pick up your phone when your father and I tried to call you?" Francis asks, containing his anger for the moment. He isn't used to having to dish out discipline for Madeline, and for a brief second, he even manages to convince himself that he's overreacting. Except _no_ —coming home this late is unacceptable, and the girls know full-well that their curfew is nine o'clock.

"My phone was on silent, and I didn't hear it."

"That's not an excuse! You should have known to contact one of us that you would be staying out late. I was just about ready to call the police!" Francis exclaims, tone sharp and strict without having to put any thought into it.

"I said I was sorry."

"No, 'sorry' isn't enough."

He's too hysterical to put his grievances into words, but thankfully, Arthur does the job of continuing the lecture for him.

"Give me your phone," Arthur orders, holding out a hand expectantly.

Madeline groans. "But Dad—"

"Your phone. _Now_. If you don't know how to use it properly, then you won't be using it at all. You're grounded until further notice, and we'll come up with a suitable set of chores you can do until we've decided our nerves have fully recovered from the anxiety you put us through. Oh, and we'll be taking your laptop as well. You'll only be allowed to use it for school-related purposes for the next two weeks."

"Isn't that a little harsh?" Madeline grumbles in protest, rubbing at one eye tiredly. She's going to have a rough time getting up for school.

Arthur raises a brow, clearly dumbstruck at seeing this new side to Madeline. However, he doesn't allow himself to relent. "Perhaps you'd like us to extend your punishment. We'd be more than willing to oblige."

"You're acting as if I was gone for a week."

"And an early bedtime," Arthur announces, daring Madeline to continue making remarks.

"Even Amelia doesn't get—"

"This doesn't concern Amelia. It concerns you."

"You guys are the worst," Madeline huffs decisively, turning away and storming to the stairs.

Francis and Arthur are left to brood alone in the kitchen. They consider going after Madeline, so she can apologize for her tone, but something gives them the feeling that if they continue this conversation, they'll all just end up more frustrated. They can make her apologize in the morning once everyone has cooled down.

"It's that boy's fault—Gilbert," Francis whispers with underlying venom. "He has done this to my wonderful Madeline."

"Let's go to bed," Arthur suggests, pecking Francis's cheek. "It will be all right. It's a phase, and everyone has to go through it one way or another."

"You're right," Francis concedes, "but the next time Gilbert shows his face around here will be the last."

"Whatever you say."

* * *

It is days like these that remind him how beautiful his daughters are.

As winter turns to spring, Francis somehow finds himself stuck in bed, nursing a dreadful headache and sinus infection combo when he should be at work, cooking for a number of UN ambassadors who have asked him to cater an event. Luckily, his assistant chef and protégé can take his place, but it's disappointing nevertheless.

The girls, being the lovely children they can sometimes be, do their best to cheer him up by preparing breakfast and tea for him and ensuring he doesn't have to lift a foot out of bed while Arthur is working down at the office. They check in on him every hour, and resupply him with tissues, blankets, and everything else he needs. It's truly touching, and for a good while, he feels like the proudest father in the universe because he and Arthur must have done something right in raising the girls if they have the capacity to be so caring and compassionate when it matters most.

He takes a mid-afternoon snooze and wakes up to a warmth on the other side of the bed, which signals Arthur's return.

"I told you this would happen if you went out without a coat. I hope you've learned your lesson," Arthur chides him. A second later, there's a thermometer in his mouth, and Arthur feels the sides of his throat with both hands, humming in thought. "Let's hope it doesn't travel to your chest."

Suddenly, Amelia bursts through the door, carrying a tall glass of water and a bottle of painkillers. "How is Papa doing? Is he getting any worse? Should I close the window?"

Arthur takes the thermometer back and frowns at it. "It's going to get worse before it gets better. Leave the window open for now—it's mild out. Oh, and would you mind bringing me the red bottle in the medicine cabinet, love?"

"I'm on it," she assures before zipping off again.

Arthur's hands are at his throat again, and he says, "Open wide… It doesn't look like strep. It's likely a virus."

"Are you going to take care of me?" Francis asks, a coy smile on his lips. It isn't often that Arthur is so openly gentle and affectionate toward him, especially not after a long day of work. His husband's bedside manner is generally fantastic, and he wants to relish being on the receiving end of it for a while.

"Perhaps," Arthur teases him before placing an icy stethoscope on his chest. "Nice, big breath now… You're going to need that decongestant when Amelia comes back with it."

Sleepy and fever-dazed, Francis casts a hand out and pulls on Arthur's wrist, tugging him firmly so he can lean in closer. "Stay with me."

"I will," Arthur whispers back with a playful smirk. "So _now_ you love me?"

"I've always loved you."

"Hmph."

Amelia returns with the medicine, and Arthur takes it from her with an appreciative word of thanks. He unscrews the cap, pours a liberal amount of syrup onto a spoon, and says, "Prove your love then, by taking this."

Amelia wanders off somewhere, and Francis makes a low noise in his throat, feeling distressed that the warmth by his side might disappear, too. "Do I get a reward?"

"We'll see."

It's enough encouragement, and Francis accepts the awaiting spoon, barely complaining. "Thank you, _mon amour_."

"You're quite welcome. Do you need another pillow?"

"I'm okay for now."

He's exhausted, but sleep is hard to attain when he can't breathe through his nose. He considers asking Arthur to get that extra pillow after all, so he can smother him with it, but he has a sneaking suspicion his plan is doomed to fail. For half an hour, he simply rests his eyes as Arthur cards a hand through his perspiring hair, but sleep never finds him.

Fortunately, the girls have another tactic up their sleeves. They show up in the bedroom with a stack of family board games in their arms, and before Francis really know what's going on, Madeline sets them up for a round of Monopoly, and they all begin to play, Arthur included. It takes his mind off of the pressure in his temple and the blockage in his nostrils, and so, he can't really complain.

Candy Land, Life, Scrabble, Clue—they get through them all by nightfall, at which point Arthur decides, "All right, girls. Papa needs to rest now."

Francis wants to shout 'no'. He wants the girls to stay. He doesn't know how many more moments like this he'll be able to have with them, especially now that they are maturing. Soon, they will be too old to do these types of things with him. He opens his mouth to moan about how he could go for one more game of Clue, but Arthur sets a damp cloth on his head that feels like heaven and the words fade from his tongue.

The girls get ready for bed, and Arthur goes god knows where. He groans at their absence, but before he can sulk for long, Arthur walks back in and slides under the covers, one hand massaging his back.

"I'm right here, frog."

"For good?"

"For good," Arthur murmurs against his neck before switching off the bedside lamp. "Wake me if you feel worse, all right?"

"All right," Francis agrees, even though he knows he will do no such thing. "Are you working tomorrow as well?"

"Yes, but I can stay home if you need me to. Amelia and Madeline will be here to look after you for me. I've given them detailed instructions."

Francis allows himself a happy sigh. "I trust them. They are good girls."

"Yes, they are."

"Do you think they'll stay that way?"

"I have a feeling we needn't worry."

And he finally falls asleep, head pressed in the space between Arthur's neck and shoulder.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** Hi, everyone! Sorry for the slow updates as of late, but I have a lot going on right now. Nonetheless, here's the chapter you guys have been waiting for! I think the next chapter might be the last one for this request.

* * *

It's Father's Day.

Why, oh why, does it have to be Father's Day?

Amelia knows she has forgotten something major when she sees Madeline arranging flowers on the kitchen table early that morning and brandishing a colorful card. An anniversary? Nope. Papa's birthday? No, that's in July, and Dad's birthday is in April, so that can't be it either.

And then, the answer smacks her right in the face. It's Sunday—Father's Day.

"Hey, Maddie? Do you mind if I sign that card of yours, too?" she asks sheepishly. Papa is still asleep, and Dad left earlier for work, so she could easily still fix all of this.

Madeline gives her a flat glare, and Amelia feels like the worst person ever. "Don't tell me you forgot about Father's Day."

"Maybe a little. So, can I sign it?"

"I'm not letting you take credit for something you didn't even remember. Get your own card."

"Maddie, please. I don't want to look like a bad, ungrateful kid."

"But you are a bad, ungrateful kid," Madeline jokes, tongue-in-cheek.

"Are you really going to make me beg? You know what? Fine, I don't need you."

If Maddie wants to be cruel, then Amelia will just have to come up with another solution. She supposes she has about thirty minutes to an hour before Papa wakes up, which is enough time to search for handmade craft ideas online she can hopefully put together in under fifteen minutes.

With a little internet browsing and the help of the basic origami skills she learned in her middle-school art class, she is able to make a vase out of construction paper and then attach a bunch of origami flowers to the vase with tape. For a ten minute job, it doesn't look half-bad, and it'll have to do.

She sets her creation down next to Madeline's card and the real flowers in the kitchen and hopes Papa will be sufficiently pleased. He comes padding down the stairs soon after, smelling of aftershave, and Amelia takes the moment to run over and hug him before Madeline can beat her to it and shouts, "Happy Father's Day!"

Papa makes a noise of surprise and says, "Ah, I almost forgot."

"How could you forget Father's Day?" Amelia asks a little too quickly as Papa pets her head and releases a giant yawn.

"When you're my age, you'll find yourself forgetting a lot of things."

No kidding, Amelia thinks. She's fourteen and she's already forgetting all of the important stuff.

Madeline delivers her own hug and tries to outshine her (as usual). This is war. May the best daughter win.

Clearly, Maddie wins round one because her gift is obviously more well-thought out than Amelia's, even though Papa says he likes both of their presents.

Granted, Maddie probably wins round two also because she had the forethought to make breakfast—eggs with toast and juice.

Round three, however, goes to Amelia for making Papa's coffee precisely the way he likes it.

As for round four, Amelia's pretty sure she's got that in the bag, too. She pours the extra coffee from the coffee maker into a Styrofoam cup, drops a dollop of cream inside, and tells Papa that she's going to take the bus to visit Dad at work. Papa gives her permission, as long as she promises to be back for lunch and not be a pest while she's at the office.

That'll show Maddie.

The bus is prompt and the ride is fairly short, which means the universe must be taking her side in this battle. She's at Dad's office well before ten o'clock in the morning, and the secretary buzzes her in when she sees her through the glass door, recognizing her.

The office isn't too busy today. There are a few middle-aged people who don't look too sick, and one older man who keeps rubbing his hands together for some reason and seems antsy.

"Here to wish your dad a happy Father's Day?" the secretary asks with a friendly smile. "I'll let him know you're here when he finishes with the patient he's with, okay? You can sit in the waiting room for now. There are snacks in the basket by the door."

Yum, snacks. Amelia grabs a bag of pretzels and decides to sit next to the old man with jittery hands, intrigued.

"Hello," she greets him pleasantly. "Would you like a pretzel? They're really good—not too salty."

The man looks back at her with irritable gray eyes and mutters, "No, thank you."

Sick people don't like talking, and now that she's sitting closer to the man, she can see how sickly he really is. His skin is so pale it's nearly translucent, and you can see the blue-green veins popping out of his wrists. His thinning hair is plastered together with aggressive sweat, and he can't sit without fidgeting.

Amelia is not squeamish. In fact, she likes observing people, especially people who look like they need someone to notice them.

"I'm Amelia, by the way. My dad is Dr. Kirkland."

The man grunts in response, but doesn't elaborate.

"It's Father's Day, so I thought I'd bring him some coffee and say hi. Are you a dad?"

The man glances at her and then carefully looks away again. "My kids are all grown now... We're not close."

"Aww, well, happy Father's Day anyway—from me," she smiles at him, munching on a crunchy pretzel. She can smell the acetone on this man's breath, and all at once, she suddenly knows exactly why this man is acting so bizarre.

She gets up, walks over to the secretary again, and says, "May I have some orange juice? Or apple juice, please? I'm not picky."

"Sure, sweetheart. Hang on a second."

The secretary goes off to the fridge hidden in a room at the end of the hall, which is where Amelia knows little cartons of juice are stored for dizzy and or light-headed patients to sip on when they get blood drawn.

Moments later, she's handed the orange juice, and she heads back to the man she was talking to before and offers the carton to him.

"Have some. You'll feel better, and you won't shake so much," she tells him, matter-of-fact.

"What—?"

"Trust me."

And so, the man takes the juice and drinks some of it, just as she orders. Within fifteen minutes, the change in his demeanor is drastic. Some color returns to his skin, he stops shaking, and the jitters calm although he's still a little unsteady and woozy.

"Thank-you," he murmurs, impressed.

"No problem!"

Just then, Dad walks out of one of the exam rooms, and Amelia rushes up to him, trapping him in the hallway. She hands him the cup of coffee, wraps her arms around him in a hug, kisses his cheek, and says, "Happy Father's Day. Also, change the line-up of your patients and talk to the older guy sitting against the back wall first. He's hypoglycemic. He had some juice, but he's still not at a hundred percent."

Dad furrows his brows and takes the coffee. "Thank you, love. I'll see what I can do, but how did you—?"

"I've picked up a few things over the years," she admits, a tad timid about it. "I'll see you at home! Love you!"

She's right, of course. Dad will confirm it later, but he doesn't have to. It was hypoglycemia, and after a glucose injection, the man gains his bearings and is just fine. It's not much, but maybe it serves to make the guy's Father's Day just that much brighter.

When Amelia gets home, she spends the day by Papa's side, helping him cook dinner. Madeline is there as well, but Amelia's sure that they can call a ceasefire for now. She convinces herself that although Maddie is still probably the more thoughtful one of the two of them, Amelia's reached a victory of her own today—and a personal victory is enough.

Madeline can have the "Daughter of the Year" award, but Amelia has secured the "Flawless-In-My-Own-Way" award.

And when Dad sees her half-hearted origami bouquet attempt, he hugs her hard and says he loves it, but that's what he's supposed to say. It's his duty as a dad.

She considers herself lucky to have two fathers.

* * *

If he said he didn't like sporty chicks, then why is he staring at her from across the room?

Boys are a mess. Papa and Dad are right. They're confusing and indecisive—mean yet occasionally flattering.

Lovino, that's the boy's name, and he may as well be a thorn in Amelia's side. She'd asked him out last week because he seemed to genuinely like her—still seems to like her—so why did he make a sour face and reject her offer with an insult last time?

Whatever. He's creepy. Twelve more minutes of history, and she'll be out of here.

When the bell rings, she speed-walks to the classroom door, but a hand on her shoulder stops her, and she swivels around on her heel with furrowed brows, annoyed. There he is, Lovino Vargas, standing right in front of her with a look of utter disdain in his eyes.

Tired of playing games, Amelia decides to confront him face-to-face. "What do you want from me? I thought I was just an overly masculine sporty chick, according to you."

Lovino's ears turn red, and his hair seems to puff up a little with embarrassment. "I-I think you have a nice face."

Whoa, way to be romantic, Amelia thinks dryly, unamused. This is probably just another trick to get her to humiliate herself again. Well, not today. She's already shed enough tears because of his actions.

"Didn't you hear me?" Lovino growls when she doesn't respond right away. "I like your face, okay?"

"Well, thanks, I guess. I grew it myself. Look, if that's all you want to say, I have to—"

She takes a step toward the exit, but Lovino surges forward, dangerously close, and suddenly slams his lips against hers.

I-Is this what kissing feels like?

It's warm and tingly, like she just ate a bunch of Pop Rocks. She doesn't know whether to kiss him back, since she's pretty conflicted in terms of her feelings for Lovino at the moment. She decides to just stand there and let it happen, and eventually, Lovino pulls away, tomato-colored, and rushes out of the class without saying a single word to her.

What a weirdo. Carefully, Amelia reaches up two fingers to touch her lips, making sure they haven't been tainted or injured in any way. Everything feels normal.

When the initial shock of the scene dies, a sudden rage fills her chest cavity without warning. How dare Lovino take her first kiss away from her like that? She wasn't ready. Yuck. Her first kiss, and it was with Lovino Vargas, of all people.

She can't let anyone know, not even Maddie. _Especially_ not Maddie. Her sister would never let her live down something of this magnitude.

She furiously wipes at her mouth and tries to rid herself of the strange feeling still on her lips, mortified.

* * *

"I heard you kissed Lovino Vargas."

How Madeline found out about her deep, dark secret is beyond Amelia, but Maddie seems to have an army of spies everywhere. For someone who's not very outgoing, she still manages to weave her way around the rumor-mill quite well.

"Don't remind me," Amelia huffs, sitting cross-legged on Maddie's bed. "Honestly, I want to forget the whole thing ever happened."

"But, why? You should at least give him a chance. When's the first date?"

"There isn't going to be a first date."

Madeline lifts one brow and looks frustratingly like Dad as she does so. "With that kind of attitude, you'll be single forever."

"The kiss was just a fluke—a mistake."

"No, it definitely meant something. What are you afraid of? Lovino isn't such a bad guy, you know."

Amelia can't believe she's hearing those words come out of her own sister's mouth. "What do you mean? He's the worst! He doesn't even know how to treat a girl."

"Because he doesn't have experience," Madeline defends him, standing her ground. "Look, why don't you just go on one, teeny tiny date with him to get to know him better and see what he's like? And if you still don't like him by then, you can just tell him that you don't think anything else will come out of this."

"I don't know…"

"We can go on a double-date, if you'd feel better about that. I'll go with Gilbert, and you'll go with Lovino, and we can go out for a movie and some pizza or something."

Maybe one date wouldn't be so bad after all. Admittedly, Amelia would like to feel what it's like to be dating for at least a few hours.

"Okay, fine, Maddie. You win," she concedes, slightly choking on the words as she speaks them. "I'll give him a chance."

And so, that's how Amelia gets dragged into having plans the following Friday evening. As the hours draw nearer to the imminent meet-up, her heart begins pounding, and she stands in front of her closet for half an hour, pondering long and hard about what to wear. She doesn't want to look like she's too eager or dressing to impress, but at the same time, it _is_ her first date, whether she likes it or not, and that means she has to at least try to look a little presentable and neater than her usual style.

In the end, Maddie is the one who picks a simple yet classic baby-pink blouse for her to wear along with some fitted jeans. Having papa's eye for accessories and fashion, Madeline also shoves some sparkly, silver bangles onto Amelia's wrist, throws a long, matching necklace over her head, and finishes the outfit off with some brown, leather cowgirl boots. It's casual yet chic.

"I'm too tall in these shoes," Amelia complains, not even taking a second to appreciate Madeline's tasteful choices.

"Oh, come on, that heel is only an inch!"

"Yeah, but I'm already Lovino's height without the heel!"

"It's not a big deal!"

"But I don't like wearing heels," Amelia insists, and it's true. She has never considered herself to be graceful or balanced enough to rock high heels or stilettos. She prefers plain flats that won't put her at risk of tripping.

But Maddie seems to be in one of her merciless moods. "It'll be fine. Suck it up for one day."

Just then, they hear the front door open downstairs. It's Dad, coming back late from work, and he strikes up a conversation with Papa, explaining some kind of emergency with one of his patients that forced him to spend two extra hours at the office.

"Did you tell Dad where we're going today?" Amelia asks, a cold realization washing over her shoulders.

"No, but Papa knows."

"Oh, no. Oh, no, no, _no_."

This is awful. As soon as Dad finds out that she, _Amelia Felicity Jones_ , is going on a _date_ , he's going to put bars on her windows and keep her locked in her room forever. He's more lenient with Madeline dating, since she's been in a relationship with Gilbert for a few years now, but this is different. Papa will most certainly allow her to go, but getting Dad to set her free is a mere fantasy.

"He'll be cool with it," Madeline says unconvincingly.

"Yeah, right."

"It won't be as bad as you think it'll be. Come on, let's do your makeup."

Amelia has to draw the line somewhere, and this is it. "No, no makeup."

"Not even some mascara?"

"Lip gloss, and that's it."

"Fine."

Once that's in order, they grab their purses, check to make sure they have everything they need, and begin the nerve-wracking journey to the front door. Amelia thinks that if maybe Madeline serves as a diversion, she can slip through the door without anyone noticing. That plan fails, however, because as soon as Amelia's hand touches the doorknob, she hears the voice of the last person she wants to see.

"And just where do you think you're going?" Dad asks, one hand on his hip as he enters the foyer.

Swallowing hard, Amelia tries her best to stay calm. "Maddie and I have plans."

"What plans?"

"We're going to the movies. Papa knows."

"Alone?"

She knows she can't lie, that'll only make things worse in the long-run. "No, Gilbert and another boy from school are coming with us."

Dad shoots her a skeptical look. "And who exactly is this other boy?"

"Just a friend from my history class. You don't know him," she says, hoping she sounds nonchalant. "We'll be back before ten."

She flings the door open and tries to make a run for it, but Dad grabs her shoulder just in time.

"Not so fast."

"Dad, please… We're going to be late."

"Is this some sort of date you're both going on?"

Seeing Amelia falter, Madeline takes the initiative to step in.

"Yes, it's a double date, and Amelia's right, we have to go before we're late," Maddie clarifies fearlessly, leading the way.

Amelia waits for Dad to flip out—to pull her back inside and tell her she's grounded or something equally unfair, but he doesn't. He just reaches out a hand to brush her bangs out of her eyes and says, "Okay, then. Be careful, and if you need anything, I'm a phone call away."

And just like that, Amelia is given permission to go. She tries to say something in response, but she's too stunned, and before she can even recover, Madeline is guiding her down the block and toward the movie theater.

Amelia's not sure how to feel about all of this. Perhaps a little part of her wanted Dad to keep her home, if only so she wouldn't have to go through the emotional stress that comes with involving oneself in a date, but now she has no other option than to go through with it.

Lovino cleans up well. Amelia can see the drastic change in his physical appearance even before she reaches the spot by the ticket booth where he is standing. He gives her a gruff greeting and doesn't say much else aside from that. What's his problem?

In fact, he barely says a word throughout the entire film. Amelia wonders if it's because he's really into what's happening on screen, but she finds that hard to believe.

It isn't until they head for the pizzeria afterward that Amelia sees him become a bit more responsive. He asks her about her other classes, basketball, and her plans for the rest of freshman year, and she answers him as politely as she can. The real breakthrough, however, happens quite literally. She's halfway through describing a project she's working on for English class when the heel of one of her boots gets caught in a sewage drain as she's crossing the street, and she falls onto the asphalt, hands reaching forward just in time to take the brunt of the impact instead of her face.

This is exactly why she always wears flats.

"Whoa! Are you okay?" Lovino asks, brown eyes shining with worry. He lends her a hand to help her up, and she grabs it with a humiliated mumble of thanks.

Madeline and Gilbert are also buzzing around her, asking questions and checking to make sure she's in one piece.

It's official, the universe is basically screaming at her to stop dating. All of her romantic endeavors end up being catastrophes.

She hobbles along and successfully crosses the street, but, understandably, her foot hurts. She toughs it out for a little while and is able to make the rest of the walk to the pizzeria, but as they sit down and start eating, she can feel her foot beginning to swell from inside of her sock. She sips on some soda and tries to focus on the discussion happening at the table instead, but the swelling doesn't get better and keeping her boot on actually starts to become unbearable.

Madeline frowns at her. "Amelia?"

"Yeah?"

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah," she lies.

Maddie doesn't look like she believes her, which isn't surprising. "Excuse me, guys. I'm gonna go to the bathroom."

"I'll go with you," Amelia says because she's sure that's what Madeline wants her to say. With a grimace, she gets up and follows Maddie to the back of the restaurant, biting her lip against the pain.

Once they're out of earshot of the boys, Maddie looks at her seriously and states, "You have to go home. I can see how much pain you're in."

"I can deal with it for a few more hours."

"No, I'm calling Papa to pick us up."

"You don't have to do that."

"Yeah, I do."

There isn't much room for argument, and Amelia is left to surrender, foot now pulsating with pain. Madeline is on the phone with Papa in seconds, and after a brief explanation of the night's events, Papa promises he'll be there as soon as possible.

They head back to the table and update the guys on the situation, and Amelia tries not to beat herself up too much for cutting their time short.

"Don't worry about it," Gilbert says, offering her a grin. "The pizza wasn't that great anyway."

"I could make a better pizza," Lovino adds, and Amelia allows herself a little laugh.

Papa arrives shortly after and stops the car in front of the restaurant. Madeline asks whether the boys need a ride home, but they decline the offer, and so, they all say their goodbyes before Maddie helps Amelia outside.

And, lo and behold, Dad is there as well. He must've tagged along after Papa informed him of Amelia's unfortunate incident.

Amelia walks straight to Dad's side, noticeably sheepish. "I still don't think I'm ready for dating."

"Good, because I don't think I am either," Dad jokes before pulling her into a hug. He sits with Amelia in the backseat as Madeline invites herself into the passenger's side. "How bad is it?"

"You tell me," Amelia hisses as she lifts her right leg up and deposits it in Dad's lap. "Fix it."

Dad sighs, grasps the bottom of her boot, and slowly slides it off, eliciting a little gasp of pain from her. "I know, love. I know… I'm sorry, but I need to see it."

It's a relief to have the shoe off, but there's nothing to distract her from the throbbing sensation now, and she tries not to whimper as her sock comes off as well. Dad's cold hand runs over the angry, inflamed skin leading up to her toes, and a moment later, he clicks his tongue.

"Can you wiggle your toes for me, love?"

She tries, but an exploding pain stops her. Dad feels along the bones beneath her toes and frowns. "You've either dislocated or fractured one of your metatarsals. We'll take you for an x-ray in the morning."

"Is that bad?"

"It depends on the severity, but I have a feeling it looks worse than it is."

"Okay. I promise not to go on any more dates for a while. I've learned my lesson," Amelia grumbles miserably.

Dad just laughs and rubs her shoulder. "I think you'll change your mind soon enough."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** Sadly, this is the last chapter of this story, everyone. Thank you so much to **kayladchristine** for the request because I had a blast writing it, and I'm going to miss it!

* * *

It's the last first day of school.

There will be first days of college semesters and whatnot, but those aren't quite the same. It's the last first day of coming down the stairs to Papa's warm breakfast and the smell of Dad's favorite tea. The last first day of hugs and packing lunches and sitting together at the table, and talking about the little, everyday things in life.

After this year, breakfasts will be spent with classmates in the cafeteria, or eaten alone in a dorm room. Dad and Papa won't be there for early morning discussions unless it's over the phone, and there'll be a myriad of extra responsibilities for the girls to keep in mind. It'll be a different life.

"How does it feel to be seniors?" Dad asks as he picks up his teacup.

"Stop, don't remind me!" Amelia whines, hating the constricting feeling in her chest. She feels old. She knows she's only seventeen and that's not even close to being old, but still, it feels like those seventeen years have zipped on by without her permission. She's just beginning to experience what it's like to be running against time. "I don't want to be a senior!"

Papa hands her a plate of waffles and frowns. "Why not?"

"Because that means I have to start thinking about college and what I want to do for the rest of my life, and I'm not ready for any of that!"

"You don't have to know what you want to do yet," Dad tries to soothe her, and his lips are curled into a dry smirk at how melodramatic she's being. "I had absolutely no idea what I was going to study when I was seventeen."

Madeline takes a plate of waffles, dumps what seems like a truckload of maple-syrup onto them, and invites herself into the conversation. "When did you know you wanted to go to med school, Dad?"

Dad thinks about it for a moment. "I did it on a whim. I wasn't completely convinced it was what I wanted to do, but once I started, I knew I'd made the right decision. Sometimes that's the best approach to have—dipping one's feet into a subject to test the waters. I had occasional doubts, of course, but I assured myself I'd be committed."

"Seems like a gamble, if you ask me," Madeline murmurs.

"Don't listen to your father. He was the most indecisive person on the globe when I met him," Papa retorts, turning off the burner on the stove before he joins everyone at the table. "I knew from very early on what I wanted to do. I had a passion for cooking, and what you girls need to do is find your passion."

Dad clicks his tongue and shakes his head. "Passion isn't everything. You also need to be willing to work hard and have clear goals."

"Why do something if you aren't happy with it and don't have any drive?" Papa asks rhetorically.

Dad immediately has an answer. "Not everyone has something they're passionate about, and that's okay. You can enjoy a job and not necessarily be passionate about it from the start. The passion can come with time."

Amelia glowers at both of her fathers. She doesn't know how their discussion led to a bickering fest, but she blames Madeline for igniting it. "You're both right, okay? You can stop now."

Papa and Dad huff but have the decency to look a little guilty.

Sometimes, Amelia wonders who the real children are around here.

* * *

Senior year is such a hassle. College apps, AP exams, SATs, and a bunch of other paperwork and unnecessary bureaucratic stuff that neither Amelia nor Madeline want to deal with. What's the big deal anyway? At the end of the day, they'll pick a school and decide to attend it, and all of the stuff they did that led up to that moment will become meaningless. Once they've been accepted, the perfect grades, eight different extracurricular activities they took part in for a few semesters, and the school spirit they pretended to show doesn't hold any weight toward anything anymore.

Thus, Amelia doesn't stress too much about the college process. She just lets it be. She puts in some effort and keeps playing basketball, but she doesn't worry about how any of it will look on her transcript or application. She'll never get to be a high school student again, and she wants to make sure she cherishes every final moment of her official childhood.

Madeline, on the other hand, doesn't see things the way Amelia does. She spends weeks at SAT prep, stresses over every point in her grades and every minutiae that makes up her academic standing. She takes five AP classes, sacrifices sleep, and spends less and less time with Gilbert so she can have more time to study. More than once, Dad and Papa express concerns over her extreme work ethic, but she brushes them off and insists she has everything under control.

That is, until she collapses.

Amelia isn't there to witness it, but apparently, Madeline has a fainting spell during her AP chemistry lab, and she's brought to the school's nurses' office. Dad and Papa are notified, and Amelia finds out when she doesn't see Maddie at lunch. Gilbert is the one who breaks the news to her and before he can even finish explaining, she sprints to the infirmary to check on her.

When she finds her, Maddie is lying on a small exam table pushed up against the wall in the corner of the room, and although she's ghostly pale and covered in her own sweat, she's awake and aware of her surroundings.

"Maddie? How are you feeling?"

"Bad."

"You've been overworking yourself."

"No," Madeline grumbles, pressing a hand to her head. "I just didn't have much to eat for breakfast because I was in a rush."

Amelia rolls her eyes. Even after all of this, her sister is still in denial. "That may have been what pushed you over the edge, but the constant studying probably isn't making things any better. I'll leave the lecturing to Papa and Dad though because you never listen to me anyway. Speaking of _los padres_ , where are they?"

"Papa's stuck at the restaurant, but Dad's on his way. He texted me a few minutes ago saying he was looking for parking," Maddie explains, still holding her head.

"Okay, good. Prepare to get yelled at. Actually, no, he won't yell at you now. He'll yell at you once you feel better, and once he's done yelling at you, I'll yell at you, too. I can't believe someone with such high grades could be so stupid when it comes to her health."

Amelia takes a seat next to Madeline and holds her hand because it makes both of them feel better, and they don't say anything else until Dad comes in a few minutes later. The nurse goes up to him, and they exchange a few words, and then he sweeps over to where they are. His expression is a mix of anger and unsuppressed worry.

"Madeline," he sighs, battling to keep calm. He picks up Maddie's right wrist with a protective hand and checks her pulse. "You girls have to stop doing this to me. I'm too old for this kind of excitement."

Amelia scoots over to the side, so Dad can have more space to work, but she stays close enough to hang onto Maddie's free, left hand. "Is she gonna be okay?"

"If she takes better care of herself, yes," Dad says sharply. "We're going to have a long talk about this in the car. I admire you for wanting to take your education seriously, Madeline, but this is unacceptable. You're making yourself sick."

Madeline opens her mouth to argue, but a rush of pain slams against her skull again, and she nods softly, not having enough strength for anything anymore.

"Check her blood pressure and sugar levels when you guys get home," Amelia suggests. "And, Maddie, drink lots of water and try not to do anything for the rest of the day."

Dad's face softens, and he gives Amelia's shoulder a squeeze. "Don't worry, love."

Amelia briefly acknowledges the gesture and then leans over to give Madeline a hug. "Dad knows what he's doing, so listen to him, and stop being stubborn. I'm worried about you, and health always comes before school. Please, take it easy."

Maddie rubs a few tears away from her eyes, clears her throat, and nods. "You're right. I'm sorry for acting dumb lately."

"No worries. I just want you to be okay and happy. I'll see you later. Oh, I know, I'll get you some of your favorite ice cream on my way to the bus, and we can stuff our faces with it tonight," Amelia offers, breaking the hug. She says goodbye to both Maddie and Dad, and then, she heads for her next class because Mr. Zwingli won't be happy if she's late to gym again, and she really doesn't want to be forced to run an extra twenty laps for tardiness.

Of course, she'd much rather stay and help Dad look after Maddie, but that'll have to wait until later. Besides, she's fairly confident that Madeline has learned her lesson. And if she hasn't, then Amelia will make it her mission to make sure she does.

That's what sisters are for.

* * *

"Francis, what did you do with my dress shirt?"

" _Mon cher_ , I put it on our bed after I finished ironing it. Your sweater is there as well."

"How was I supposed to know you'd put it there?"

"Because this is the third time I'm telling you. You never listen to instructions," Francis grouses. "I go through all of this trouble and—"

Arthur rolls his eyes and gives Francis the kiss he's been pining for. "All right, _thank you_. I appreciate the backbreaking effort you go through on my behalf."

"I would hope so," Francis mutters, but it's clear he's no longer bitter. "Wear the tie I bought you the other day, the blue one with the stripes. This is the _last_ parent-teacher conference, after all."

It's hard to believe that after twelve years of talking to the girls' teachers and taking an active role in their lives at school, this is the final time Francis and Arthur will be able to put themselves at the forefront of the twins' educations.

They'd received the girls' report cards yesterday, and though neither of them had any major problems in the fall semester, they are concerned that Amelia and Madeline will soon fall victim to senioritis like everyone else, and so, it'd be best to get acquainted with their teachers before the start of the final, spring semester.

Once all of their wardrobe malfunctions have been dealt with, Francis and Arthur leave for the high school. The girls get the evening to themselves, while Francis and Arthur get to take a bit of a trip down memory lane, remembering all of the other times they've been in similar positions such as this one.

"Think there'll be any surprises tonight?" Arthur asks as they follow the stream of other parents entering the school.

"Hmm, I'm sure Amelia has missed an English assignment or two, but that's not exactly surprising by this point," Francis jokes wryly. Amelia isn't a bad student by any means, but she's notorious for taking a few shortcuts through her classes every now and then when her bouts of laziness take over.

Arthur nods in agreement and adds, "Should we be those parents who ask why Madeline received an A and not an A plus?"

Francis chuckles and his lips stretch into a grin. "We have nothing to lose, but _non_ , I don't want to embarrass the girls. Are there any teachers we _have_ to see?"

"Amelia's Spanish teacher. It's the class she's been struggling the most in."

"Okay, let's go there first… Can you believe the girls are starting college next term?"

Arthur hunches his shoulders and purses his lips. "No."

"What are we going to do when they're both out of the house?"

"Take a vacation on the coast."

"And after that?"

"I don't know. Frankly, I don't want to consider it," Arthur admits, and his chest strangely begins to ache. Maybe it's his turn to come down with something.

Francis makes an empathetic sound and smiles sadly. "We need another child."

"Oh, no. That time has passed. I wouldn't be able to raise another parasite."

"Are you suggesting our children are parasites?" Francis gasps, but the smile is still on his face.

"There are some similarities between the two, yes."

"The house will be lonely, don't you think?"

Arthur turns his head to the side, so Francis can't see his eyes, and states, "We'll get a cat."

"At least we'll still have each other," Francis reminds, purposefully sounding cheesy. He takes one of Arthur's hands and rubs a thumb over it. He knows this is a difficult topic of discussion for both of them. "I love you."

Arthur clears the emotion from his throat and murmurs, ever so quietly, "I love you, too."

* * *

One day. That's all they have left together as a family before Amelia goes off to school in California, and Maddie leaves for Massachusetts. There's not enough time. Never enough time. Just eighty-six thousand, four hundred seconds. In the morning, Papa and Dad will drive Maddie to her bus first, and then they will drive Amelia to the airport, after which they'll be apart for the majority of the year—for the next four years and possibly beyond.

They decide to spend their last day at the park, feeding bread crumbs to the geese and watching the sun set over the lake. They have so much to say to each other that they end up hardly saying anything at all because talking hurts. As much as Madeline and Amelia know they're ready to tackle the next chapter in their lives, they also know that leaving behind their parents will be one of the most difficult things they'll ever have to do.

It's not just college. It's life from beyond this point. They're saying goodbye to their childhoods, and though Papa and Dad will still be there for them when necessary, it'll be different because they won't be little girls anymore—they'll be adults, and they'll be expected to act like adults should.

Amelia wishes she could rewind the year and start over again, if only to relish in everything once more, but science hasn't discovered a way to do that yet. She can't stand the solemn expressions on everyone's faces.

There's a playground at the other end of the park, and she can see children cheerfully taking turns on the slide and at the monkey bars—lucky them. They don't realize how great they have it, do they? Soon enough, they'll be in her shoes as well, standing on the other side of this lake, wondering how they managed to grow up so fast.

"Amelia? Is everything all right?" Dad asks her, and for the first time, Amelia realizes that he is older, too.

"Yeah, I'm just thinking… What if I don't like it at college?"

"It'll take some getting used to, but I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

Amelia doesn't know if he's just trying to placate her. She doesn't think he is. "This is going to seem like a weird question, but what was my favorite thing at the playground? Was I crazy about the slide or the merry-go-round?"

"Neither. You spent your entire afternoons on the swings," Dad recalls with a little smile. "The middle swing, to be exact."

"Why the middle?"

"You were convinced it would let you swing higher than the others."

Amelia squints to better make out the swing-set at the far end of the playground and tries to picture herself swinging among the children there, with Madeline on her left. "I fell off that swing, didn't I?"

"Oh, yes. On more than one occasion."

"And I wasn't afraid to go on it again?"

"No, why would you be? You were a fearless child, and a few scrapes never stopped you."

She laughs, and her eyes get all watery and sappy on her. "I wish I could be half as invincible as I thought I was back then."

Suddenly, Madeline comes over to them and nudges Amelia in the ribs. "There's a woman selling cotton candy over there. Let's go and get some."

Some things don't change, and thank god for that.

Amelia takes one last look at the playground, and then shifts her gaze between Dad, Papa, and Maddie, and she can feel some kind of warmth ballooning in her stomach. "Okay, I'm coming."

She turns away and starts walking, but then she stops mid-step, remembering something. How could she forget?

She looks to Dad and smiles. "Toodle-loo, kangaroo."

Just like that, the solemnity is wiped away from his face, and he laughs with her. "What about my hug, ladybug?"

She strolls into Dad's arms and rests her head on his shoulder, only for Papa and Madeline to join them seconds later. It's the group hug they all need but never wanted to admit to needing.

It's not easy to pull away, but Amelia manages to do it after a full minute has passed and says, "Now, let's go get that cotton candy, sis."

"Last one there is a rotten egg!" Maddie shouts playfully, sprinting down the road.

"You don't stand a chance!"

Who says they can't be kids for a little longer?


End file.
